June 19, 2007

Magic

The kids arrived Saturday morning with the usual accompaniments-one million questions, requests, ideas, and noises. I never get used to it but two kids make a hell of a lot of noise. Ironically once they leave, I miss the hubbub enormously and wonder what we can do to bring the decibel level back up.

Yesterday Jeff was playing around on the PC (when Melissa wasn't on it, that is. Between the two of them I won't be seeing much PC action for two weeks, so apologies if you've sent a mail and not heard back from me) and the sounds of film trailers drifted into the living room. One song in particular drifted out into the hallway and wrapped itself around my spine.

There's something magical about that song.

Here's a picture of a place we passed in Scotland, at a bridge called Glenfinnan (and yes I need to upload my Scottish pics. It's on the list along with a lot of things I need to do).


Glenfinnan


Do you recognize it?

If I used the words "Hogwarts Express", would you then?

That's the bridge shown in the films when the kids are aboard the train heading to Hogwarts. That's even the train they use, they just rebadge it "Hogwarts" over the West Highland Railway markers. We passed the viaduct and knew we had to stop and take a photo. We even waited for the steam train to pass us. It sounds dumb, but I got a small thrill thinking that something like a steam train heading on its usual route could have a small impact on my day. It's not like I'm a Harry Potter groupie or anything, honest.

The music that drifted from Jeff's computer antics was the very distincitve and appropriate Harry Potter theme song, and that's what I've been thinking about for a little while.

There's something special about the Harry Potter books (just in case the box office receipts and J.K. Rowling's standing as one of the wealthiest women in history didn't give that away.) The kids work themselves up into a frenzy each time a book or film is released. Melissa is re-reading the series for who knows what time - 5th? 10th? While maybe Angus isn't a fan, there's something in the series that sets the kids alive.

And I can relate. To me those films are perfect on a cold Autumn day (I can't really explain it but I don't like watching them in the Summer. They're Fall films for me.) You get under a blanket, have a fire in the fireplace, ignore the cold grey sky outside and you sit transfixed while you watch the films, transported to cold damp hallways and golden goblets of butter beer (a concoction while sounds simultaneously repugnant and fantastic all at the same time).

The books are equally absorbing. When you start to read you're launched into a world that feels like 100 year-old velveteen and smells like the ripe hollowed end of a thick hardbound book. You care about the characters. You hope the good guys win.

And the books are a basic, perfect mix of it all, and you see why kids love them. The books revere that state that you spent your childhood looking for, and once you didn't find it you realized that, that's what made you a grown-up. It wasn't hair in odd places or rushing hormones or the fact that your head was scraping the ceiling. You became a grown-up when you stopped looking for magic places.

I remember as a kid looking behind the boiler in the house we lived in at Colorado Springs. I was so convinced that the small door back there was a secret passageway to Narnia, Nimh, or to the Borrowers. I was sure of it. When I finally got the little door open I discovered it was just full of dust and cobwebs, possibly the skeleton of a rabbit or two, and that the door? It led to nowhere.

I didn't stop looking for magic places then.

I tried them in department stores inside the racks of clothing.

I tried them in fitting rooms.

I tried them in old houses with too many closets.

And eventually when I didn't find any magic spaces, I just stopped trying.

So it was that I grew up.

But Harry Potter, he's extending that for this generation. Melissa, at 15, could potentially still be a believer. Jeff most definitely is. They can dream and taste magic because it's in front of them - three ordinary kids with special circumstances live the life they wish they had. The books have a clear delineation between good and evil, there's no ambiguity. That kind of clarity is exactly what is needed in the world today. This guy here? He's bad. We don't want him to succeed. This guy, with the glasses? He's a good guy. He should win.

I love the books. I'm not ashamed to admit it, I have no problem confessing that the books are something that sets my imagination on fire. The films are brilliant and well-made and something to be revered, too, but the books...the interpretation that the mind gives them is amazing. It doesn't make me want to be a kid again (god, not that again). But it does bring out something dusty that had been sitting on a shelf, forgotten.

When the books come out the trains I ride on are chock full of the bright yellow, red, and blue books as all the grown-ups get them out to read on the commute. Even though we're adults we still remember what it was like to have enforced bedtimes, little responsibility, and dreams that Saturday morning cartoons were the start to a weekend of magic hunting. I like to imagine that as soon as we pull our books out of our purses, briefcases and backpacks, that our feet shrink and fall out of our high heels, the ends of the re-inforced toes of our tights hanging well past our little toenails. The air smells like strawberry bubble gum and caramel apples. From time to time you hear a small, high-pitched giggle. The mens' trousers hang over the ends of their legs, their little legs pumping back and forth against the seat, as all of us shrink out of our 30's and 40's and become kids again, if just for a 45 minute train ride.

I'll buy the next one, as will Melissa - we'll be in the Scottish Highlands that week and will look for them then. I'll savor every last drop of the book, and I'll even force myself to read it slowly, more slowly, as this will be the last foray into a world that as a grown-up, my only hall pass into it comes in the form of a little wizard with a crooked scar. I'll miss that little guy. More than that, I'll miss how I let all my stres and fears go while I read it, and let myself back into a world where people can fly, magic potions exist, and dragons are right around the corner. Melissa, she'll drink and devour it and then she'll read and re-read them. But she can do that because it's all so real to her still. It can still happen, if she just checks the right doors.

And while I read it, I'll remember what it was like to believe in that magic, to think that there's something more than all of this out there.

And that will be enough, for a while, to help me dream of crawlspaces and doors behind boiler rooms.

- H.

PS-LynD, thank you very much. I really mean it.

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June 18, 2007

Eulogizing

My ex-husband and I got Mumin on a warm summer day in Sweden. We'd been to visit his mother and stepfather at their home in the middle of Sweden, and a local farm was advertising rescue farmhouse kittens. We'd already had Maggie (named for Maggie Simpson) and Maggie was a wild, untamable kitten. She didn't want to be held, she didn't want to be touched, and her preferred way of life was to be causing some form of distruction. I'm one of those that think cats are better off in pairs because they can offer each other company and comfort, so it was always in the cards to get another cat.

Enter a little black and white kitten.

We went to a farmhouse where we were presented with two options - an all-black male kitten or a black and white female kitten. Since we already had a female kitten, we thought it would be best to get another girl. We paid a fee (a donation to the society and the cost of the kitten's shots).

And just like that, Mumin was a part of our life. She was named for a Finnish cartoon character and although I was nervous about bringing her home - cats often have a hard time adjusting to each other - I had nothing to worry about. Maggie and Mumin took to each other as though they'd always had each other in their lives, and always would. They looked nearly identical, with the exception that Mumin's eyes were yellow to Maggie's green and Mumin had a front leg that was white up to her upper leg, whereas Maggie's simply look encased in a pair of white 1950's gloves.

Mumin turned out to be very ill with a severe parasitic infection and a few vet visits later she was healthy. The parasitic infection damaged her growth though (or so the vet said) and as a result she was always a small cat. She and Maggie got on fabulously and in Sweden where you'd find one sleeping you'd generally find the other.

Mumin was my cat. She liked to curl up on my lap under the blankets, and we'd watch TV together while the snow fell outside. She liked to chase toy mice and if you threw one for her she'd bring it back, meowing as if to say "See how much I love you? You drop your toy and I'll bring it back to you." She had one of the sweetest, most patient dispositions ever - she wasn't the cleverest of cats but she was kind and loving. While Maggie is the angry, unfriendly wild cat Mumin was the happy, purring happy-go-lucky cat. We had our rituals, amongst them me giving her nibbles of cheese in the mornings. She liked to be held against your chest, like a baby. She loved to sleep on your lap with her head curled under, blocking out the light.

When she and Maggie came over to the UK after serving out their pet quarantine time in Sweden they have both gained a significant amount of weight. They'd been living with my ex, serving their quarantine, and had been simply eating to bide the time. It had never once occurred to me to not bring them over-they were my girls, they were coming. On the airplane trip over both nearly died as I had misguidedly given them tranquilizers to ease their stress-turns out animals sleep at that altitude anyway, drugging them dangerously lowers their body temperature.

There were new rules when they arrived. Angus' pets had a different way of life to mine. Dogs are not allowed upstairs. Cats should go outdoors. Pets on beds is generally not ok. It was a change, but in general the cats took to the changes in an entirely positive way. It turned out that Mumin, she loved the outdoors. She was incredible at catching animals to present to us as gifts. She and her new best friend Gorby would be outside for hours wiling away hours. She tolerated his puppy-ness. He, in turn, loved her. She'd spend all day outside on various rambling adventures and in the summertime it was impossible to get her inside. During the winter she wouldn't go out and would instead start gaining winter weight like a grizzly bear, which she'd quickly lose once it became warm enough to investigate the great outdoors.

I think it was for this exact reason we didn't notice what was going on.

She'd lost her usual winter weight. At a vet visit in March for her immunizations she was weighed, and came out a reasonably light 3.8 kg. She was pronounced very healthy and happy. She was wormed, boosted, and continued her fun outside.

We'd noticed over the past few weeks that she was looking too thin. But her antics outside with Gorby were continuing, she still came inside from time to time, and she was as loving and sweet as ever.

Last week we thought she'd become too thin. Her personality was still completely normal, so we decided to watch her and make sure she was ok. I'd decided to book up a vet visit, but then she was her usual self so I figured maybe this was just extreme summer weight loss.

When we returned from Scotland on Tuesday, I saw her in the evening. I was shocked by her appearance-you could see her hip bones. Her fur was matted and dirty. I held her and washed her fur, which infuriated her and she dashed outdoors. I waited for her to come inside so we could go to the vet.

But she didn't return until Friday morning, which was highly unusual for her.

When she finally came in she was frail, shaking, and uninterested in our usual morning cheese ritual. She was frighteningly thin. I held her in a towel and called the vet. We thought maybe she had some kind of parasite, maybe something she hadn't been wormed for.

The vet was very worried-Mumin had gone from 3.8 kg to 2.2 kg. She started to get sick all over the vet's table and was shaking. She was held over at the vets as they could feel a mass in her stomach.

Through it all, she was purring.

They took her through a swinging door and that was the last time we ever saw her.

They did x-rays and took blood at lunchtime. They called us. They were worried. They felt exploratory surgery was needed and they would call me and keep me posted.

When the vet finally did call I think somehow it was what we knew was coming.

The vet had found a massive tumor in Mumin's small intestine, just at a critical junction with the large intestine. It would be impossible to remove the tumor as in cats, it's apparently at a junction that you can't successfully re-connect. But as though the tumor weren't enough the lymph nodes were swollen and cancerous. The vet said they could do a biopsy and try chemo, which would buy us another year at most, but that the tumor was such that it would burst at any time, killing Mumin. Even if it hadn't, Angus and I wouldn't want to put Mumin through chemo. I fully understand that other people feel it's the best solution for their beloved pets, but he and I feel that Mumin wouldn't have understood what she was going through, that the pain of chemo would have been too great.

The vet and I agreed to let her go on the table. Waking her up just so I could say goodbye was a gesture that I wanted very, very much but I knew it was too selfish. My goodbye would have to be implied. My "I love you, baby" would have to be understood.

And so my little girl died.

Someone sent me an email not long ago (Foggy? Was it you?) about heaven. It told the story of a man who died and met his beloved dog in the afterlife, and they were walking along and came to the pearly gates. The man asked for a bowl of water for his dog and the guardian at the gate said "Sorry, no pets allowed." So the man and his dog kept walking until they came to another pearly gate, identical to the one he had just been at, and there was a bowl of water there. The dog had a long drink and the man turned to guardian at the gate. The guardian welcomed the man and the dog. "What is this place?" asked the man. "I was just at a place like it, only they wouldn't take my dog." The guardian smiled. "This place, my friend, is heaven. Both of you come on in."

It's stupid, really, but I like to think that's along the lines of what happens.

And for everyone who commented who also lost a friend, I hope it happens for you, too. Thank you for being there. It's been a bad time lately and I'm a little screwed up right now, so thank you.

Animals take up a deep space in my heart, and in general I trust them more than I trust people. Animals will only hurt you out of fear, while people, well...who the hell knows how they work. Animals have an innate sense of love and kindness and as long as you encourage that love and kindness the relationship you have with them is immeasurably sweet. As I get older my relationships with my furry buddies gets better and better, to the point now where I can't imagine extricating a single one of them from my life.

Until now, that is.

I feel like I shouldn't complain that my cat passed away. It's not like the body of a solider covered in a shroud from the beaches of Normandy or anything like that. I guess I feel embarrassed that losing Mumin has hit me so badly. But the truth is, my pets are my kids. They've always been my kids and always will be, even when real kids show up. Mumin was a bright spot in my day and one of the characters that I thought would tolerate and be patient with the Lemonheads as they go through their tail-grabbing stages. She was a sweetheart, a good girl, and a good friend to Gorby.

Maggie and Gorby are both being very needy now, as though they know something's amiss, too. I keep holding and cuddling Maggie (much to her annoyance) because no matter how unfriendly she can be I love her, too, and couldn't bear to lose her either. We will go on, and Angus has agreed we can maybe even think about another kitten someday. But we're still at a stage where we miss the little Mumin, and I think it'll be like that for a long while.

I'm not dragging this out and I'm not refusing to move on. I wrote this not for sympathy but so that you could know who Mumin was, what affect she had on our lives. I know a lot of people are probably rolling their eyes with a sigh of "Geez, man, she was JUST a cat." And she was a cat. But she was a cat I loved. I won't be posting about her for a while now, I think. It is time to move on and we are all moving on. Just as you have your own companion-sized shapes in your heart, so do I. I need to let the Mumin-shaped hole in my life heal. I never knew something so small could leave such a space behind.

But then, she was like that. Always catching you by surprise.

-H.

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June 15, 2007

An Update To the Earlier Post

The vet just called.

They did blood tests and x-rays this morning and at 2 pm had to do exploratory surgery.

Mumin had cancer and an inoperable tumor in her intestines.

She died on the operating table.

She was 6 years old.

My little Mumin

I love you, baby.

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An Anniversary

Four years ago today I started writing this blog. I remember the day well actually - I was sitting at my desk at Company X, the desk with the view of the atrium, and I didn't have much going on at work. I'd heard of blogs and knew a little bit about them, and in an impulse moment I decided to start one of my own. I opened an account on Blogger, sat there thinking for a minute, and then started writing (from work, which is naughty and something I never do now.)

I don't know how I came up with the name Everyday Stranger, but it just came (little did I know at the time it's also the name of a San Francisco band. I like to think I came first.) I wanted to get across, to the random person who would find my site, that I'm just an everyday person you pass on the street. I'm like any other person out there, someone you may never talk to or meet, but one of many people you rub shoulders with on your commute, at Starbucks, on the airplane. I'm ordinary and anonymous, and like any other stranger I pass in and out of your life and leave no mark behind.

I didn't know where my blog would take me. I think the anonymity of it was what attracted me - I could talk, I could talk about things I shouldn't talk about, and no one would know it was me. I could let things out of myself that would horrify and shock and no one would be there to stare across the table at me with disdain. The quirks, mistakes, foibles, and fuck-ups that I am composed of could have a voice.

I think I was pretty surprised when I found out people were reading. I am still surprised. What surprises me even more is that some people have been around a long time - to name a few, I found a comment here from Loribo that goes back to June 2004. Sarah first popped up in October 2003 when I confessed I knocked the cat off the bed with my knockers. People that I care about have been around a long time, longer than some of my real life friends.

It's important to me that people read here, not because I'm a glory hound, but because it actually makes me feel more human. Human as in "in touch with life". That these random thoughts and punctual nightmares are things others may think, feel, or experience helps me understand that maybe we all have issues, insecurities, and laughs, they're something that can bring people together. I am human (and I need to be loved). I don't always respond to comments but I read them all meticulously and I wonder about your life and your experiences, too.

I think blogging has helped my confidence. Recently I've decided (honestly and truly this time, not like all the other false starts I've had) to try to go about getting published, and I'm adding a second track to that in attempting to try my hand at writing a regular column for something in print (I'll get back to you at how successful that is.) With two babies coming more income is going to be needed, and badly. I'm hoping in some way to augment our income with selling writing, if that's possible. If I'm being foolish and kidding myself and I'll simply meet with the pointy stick end of rejection which will cause me to wear Band-Aids labelled "You Suck. Stop Trying To Play With the Big Kids Now", well, there's always blogads (which I'm putting back on the site this weekend.)

A lot of people who started blogging the same time I did have dropped by the wayside. You burn out, your situation changes, you get discovered...I think for some blogging is something that, when the need is filled, you stop. I feel pretty proud of myself in some small way. I've been writing on this site for four years today, an act of commitment which is now longer than either of my marriages (how embarrassing it is to say that), my time in college, and my relationship with Kim. The only things, in fact, that have lasted longer than this blog are my love for Angus, my time outside of the U.S, my girls Maggie and Mumin and my desire for macaroni and cheese.

So I have a pretty committed relationship with my blog. We're at the "it's ok to fart in front of each other" stage. I no longer complain when it leaves its boxer shorts on the floor every morning. I even give it the remote most of the time.

I'm not quitting, and although I do take a time out every once in a while when my going gets too tough to write it all out at once, I do appreciate and love my little space here. It's not going to change the world. But it does help me.

So four years today.

I think that's something.

I could get all introspective and shit, but then I do that pretty often and you're probably very used to that (to the point where you may often scream "The mirror! She does not have two faces! Now move the fuck on!"). But suffice to say that there's been more living in these past four years of my life than in the entire rest of my life combined. And it's amazing to me to be able to look back and see, in print, the journey that my life has taken. Yes that sounds incredibly cheesy. But it's been one hell of a ride.

And if you'll excuse me now, Mumin is clearly very unwell and we're off to the vet.

-H.

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June 13, 2007

It Just Is

There are a lot of things you've been learning about life. This is what you do, you're a ball of tape that rolls and bounces and picks it all up as you go, and from time to time you check the adhesive to see what's on you, how it all adds up. Recent stock-taking would have you happy as you see what's settled on the surface-love. Security. Hope. Your recent liking of avocados. Amazing shit.

But sometimes the floor falls out from under you and despite the fact that you are well on your way to getting that healthy mental bill of certification, the one with the gold seal and watermarked signature, you are not prepared enough to handle some of what comes your way.

You started IVF because it was so desperately important to you to be a mother. He wasn't so keen to be a father again but agreed to do it for you, with you, because it was so important to you. You didn't know at the time, you should have checked the small print, that "agreed" does not imply graciousness. Agreed means reminding you on a regular basis that you have ruined your collective lives, and by "agreement" that means you are expected to sit there and take it since you are solely and utterly to blame.

You knew that you would be different to the other people out there, see. You knew you'd not have a partner desperate to get home and pat your stomach. You knew that joyously creating a nursery was out of the question. That's not what was in the cards for you, it wasn't even available in the deck. But you didn't know that you would get constant negative reminders of how angry he would be. You didn't know, not because you don't pay attention because you always pay attention, but because you didn't understand that success would mean such pain.

You knew that he didn't think pregnant women glow. He told you that, and to some extent you agree. Pregnant women are simply pregnant. What you weren't clear on is that he wouldn't find you attractive. You, this person that supposedly is what makes his blood run rampant, are now something he can't find attractive. It's a difficult one when you don't generally find yourself attractive either, but you always have done with him. You may not be classically beautiful but there's something about his reaction that makes you feel like a beauty, only that's missing now, too. You tell yourself that can come back and in the meantime you cover up.

You spend a lot of time trying to solve problems. With every new problem thrown up at you, you try to find a way to resolve it. That's what you do. And that's wrong, too.

You can't buy anything. What you have bought you have to remove from sight because he says it may jinx things. There are things you thought of buying but can't because he says they're gimmicks, you can make do without. Your mother had problems with baby things. You remember it, in that fucked up memory of yours, you remember her saying We have to hide the baby things, it makes him angry. The four things you've bought are removed from sight, too, because they depress him. Years later you were there when she said a big regret was not having someone in her life to share the joy of pregnancy.

You didn't know that you would repeat the patterns.

You are filled with anger at the fact that you can't even feel this way without them reading about it, too, because you live in a bubble.

You knew that he isn't a baby person. This isn't such a bad thing, you know others that aren't mad about babies. Some people think of babies like I do, like little tulips that smell of extraordinary things, that are a tremendous amount of work but the small weight of them is worth it. Some people look at babies as an inconvenient stage to childhood, which is where they get interesting, when they have opinions and reactions and give you cause for laughter. You knew that he isn't a baby person but you didn't know that he thinks of babydom as a great big black pit of despair, you thought it was a point in development that he simply didn't enjoy.

And all of these things so far, you can take them. It's really hard and you have screaming in your head but so far you can cope. Pregnancy will give way to you getting your body back, babies grow into opinionators that he will enjoy more, and you have hope.

But sometimes it's too much to bear. Your defense mechanisms are non-existent just now, you're at the point in your therapy when your defense is being built up, it's going to be that your defense is to believe in yourself enough to handle what comes your way. So when he tells you that all he can see for years to come is black darkness, you have to try to pull it together and be there for him. But when you hear that you are not even something that he looks forward to in the future, you lose it.

You offer not a hint of light.

All that you thought you offered - love, laughter, sparks and magic...it's just bullshit. It was nothing. You offer not even a single match to light up his darkness. The only positive thing in his future is building an extension which will take his mind off of you and off of his babies. You, who are naive and stupid enough to believe that your faith in him and in your relationship can get you through any black times, that how you feel about him will get you through hard times because it has before, now know that you're not enough for him. And when you ask why he doesn't just leave now, why would he want to be with someone he doesn't look forward to being with, you're told it's because he cares about you and he has a sense of responsibility.

And you have become that 1950's housewife, one without sparkle and magic, one who is an obligation and a duty, not a joy.

He tells you he hopes you prove him wrong, that you prove you will be something to look forward to. Although it never once occurred to you that you wouldn't be yourself when the babies are born (you'll still want to curl up next to him and still want to hold him and still bounce around and still buy him Fruit Rowntrees as a surprise) it gets added to the list of Things You Must Do. You now have to prove yourself to him. Again. You feel you need to reassure him that his fears are of course justified, it's worrying to think that one may slip in priority with the arrival of two babies but you have absolutely no doubt at all in your heart that how you feel about him is unwavering and limitless, that even on the nights when you're knackered and sleepless the hold he has on your heart is unchanged. And you honestly believe that to be true. You have to prove him wrong, and while you do so you have to know that you're now not a person to look forward to, not anymore, and you were a fucking self-righteous idiot to ever think that you were.

You know he's angry and scared and nervous. You are too. You know that maybe some of the things he says are being tempered by his fears so they're not coming out right. You had a fantastic holiday weekend in Scotland, you were close, so you hold on to that and to the fact that he often comes through for you. You cry a lot and feel lower than you have for a very long time and all you can see is darkness now, too.

You love him very much.

You can see he's depressed and he knows he's depressed, but he's not moving on from it, he's not anywhere but in the middle of the depression, embracing it, he's not trying to see a way through it in whatever small steps that emergence can come from. You know how that is. You hope he will try, soon.

You are torn into little shreds feeling like you are something not worth looking forward to.

You are 20 weeks pregnant and your stomach is a hard ball.

So is your heart.

You keep going because that's what you always do and that's the only choice that you have.

-H.

Comments are closed because I won't have anyone saying anything remotely negative about him. Don't email me trying to offer advice or opinions. Please. I really need some space just now.

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June 12, 2007

"Surrounded"

I was there
CÂ’mon and tell me I wasnÂ’t worth
Sticking it out for
Well I was there
And I know I was worth it
Cause if I wasnÂ’t worth it
That makes me worse off than you are
But donÂ’t lose sight of me now
DonÂ’t lose sight of me now

Chantal Kreviazuk, Under These Rocks and Stones

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June 06, 2007

"Hotter than my shorts! I could've done a little crotch pot cooking!"*

Home now.

Event over and we didn't win but that's ok, you can't win them all.

I left the event early actually-when we arrived at the ballroom it was hotter than fuck in the building because the air conditioner crapped out. Although we complained there was nothing that could be done, so about 400 of us sweated it out. As one of only a handful of women bedecked in shoulder baring clothes I had it easy-I was half-naked in a wispy dress. We fared much better than the menfolk, as they were cinched up in their penguin suits. And when I say it was hot in that room, I'm not exaggerating in the least. The men had their handkerchiefs out and continuously moving to mop up the sweat (I really felt bad for them, I can't imagine facing that kind of heat while wearing both a tie and a dinner jacket). I wasn't so great either-my makeup did a runner, I had sweat rivulets running down my legs, and the heat did nothing positive for The Lemonheads, as I swelled up to roughly the size of something that Japanese commercial fishermen would be keen to throw a harpoon at.

In the end I'd run out of time before the event, so I wore my hair down with a slight wave in the back.

Here's me (with a colleague, whom I've cropped out):


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And me in the bathroom with bad fluorescent lighting and cut off at the waist (I only had a second before someone else came in to the bathroom, and there's nothing weirder than seeing someone with a camera in the toilets):


CIMG3284-1.jpg


I have to confess - and this is not because I'm looking for contradictions or compliments, because I'm really not - but I didn't feel all glowy and floaty and dreamy. I felt sweaty. I felt swollen. I felt huge. I felt I wasn't remotely attractive, I was just pregnant.

I enjoyed spending time with my team though, even if I didn't get to partake in the guzzling of the copious amounts of free champagne. While we were melting into a pool of liquid goo a nice older man came up to talk to my team. He was the absolute typical enigneering type-greying, glasses, bow tie askew and black pen marks on his white tuxedo shirt. He introduced himself as James and asked us about our project. He knew a lot about it and had a lot of information, and I jumped in and gave my opinion about various things.

My hands kept twitching to fix his bow tie, as it was completely askew.

He asked more questions.

It literally was on the tip of my tongue to ask him if he wouldn't mind if I fixed his tie (I had even licked my lips and inhaled to push the sound out of the sound box) when they called us out of the sweat box ballroom to move us into the dinner room for the meal and the awards. James promised to stay in touch with us and our future projects. I liked the chap.

We sat and had some starters, and then the first presenter went up to talk.

I saw with a start that the speaker was James.

Only he isn't just James, he's Sir James. As in Landed Gentry James. As in "gives off air of doddering geek but really has sums of money so vast I can't even comprehend them" James.

I was awfully glad then that I didn't fix his tie.

There are a lot of things I have gotten used to living here in England, but as long as I live I will never get used to the idea of mingling with men who have been knighted. It's just too much for my tiny brain to manage.

Anyway, we're off this evening on Angus' birthday celebration - taking the sleeper train up to Fort William (Scotland) then a few days tooling around the Hebrides before taking the sleeper train back home again.

I'll see you on Tuesday.

-H.

* Quote from Good Morning, Vietnam.

PS-London's 2012 Olympic logo sucks donkey balls. I could've put a crayon between Gorby's paws and he'd had done a better job than that.

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June 05, 2007

Fashion Help for Dummies

OK, so tonight I have another awards prsentation formal do, in which I am staying over in London for and needing to put on the Ritz a bit, so to speak. I've bought an inexpensive new dress seen here (it's the chocolate strap dress. And yes, even though it's not ideal I'm wearing strappy black heels with it because I can't be assed to go buy a new pair of shoes for a dress that I'd better not have to ever wear again and generally speaking I never wear brown. Plus I'll be in a room full of male engineers, and it's not like a few of them won't be mismatching things in their tuxes as well.) It's a comfortable dress and it's inexpensive, which was important-I hopefully won't be fitting into maternity clothes this time next year, so even though it's a black tie event, this should be a one-shot for the dress.

It'll be my first "unveiling" to most folk since getting knocked up, and I'm definitely visibly showing now.

I'll also be around the infamous tummy rubbers tonight, but at least with strappy shoes I can do damage to anyone coming near me.

I tried the dress on last night. I felt like a beached whale. And I still have 18 more weeks to go.

So here's my dilemma. I have no style sense, as you'll generally find me in pajamas and a ponytail. I'm also absolutely, completely, 100% hopeless at doing my own hair. Seriously. I think the French twist is very elegant but I can't even do that. And I completely forgot that I will be having hair to contend with so I didn't book a hair appointment (besides, if I can't be assed to buy new shoes and I LOVE new shoes then there's no way I'm addressing the hair).

My question, and I need your advice-should I wear my hair up in a very, very simple updo or should I wear it down (and if down, then straight or curly)?

Thanks in advance for any style guidance you can offer.

Love,
The Fashion Hopeless

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June 04, 2007

Doctor, Doctor

I was recently asked by someone to sum up how I feel about the NHS care I receive here in England. I remember living in the States and, except for that radical period I went through where I read up on foreign cultures and politics as a way of back-stopping arguments I had in my Anthropology 101 class (which was really a collection of beatnick hippy anthro students like myself and a load of Texan Ride 'Em Rough conservatives who took the course as a liberal arts elective and then spent their time banging on about Bibles, shotguns, and Old Glory), I really didn't think a moment about how other countries handle their social structures. The Dobe Kung were as relevant to me then as the Finnish political system.

What the hell was I thinking getting a degree in anthropology, anyway?

So how do I find the NHS care I receive here?

In a word: Excellent.

I know this will wind people up, but frankly I don't give a shit. I tire of reading diatribes of people that like to bash the UK health system because it's-oh my GOD-socialist. "Socialism" is uttered in the States like a bad word, it's on par with assuming that McCarthyism is relevant and the government is out to take your paycheck which they will use to color the world a new Dulux color of pink. It annoys me when I read articles from writers who have never been in a socialist health care system and they decide they have to fight the evil and support truth, justice, and the American Way (I don't read bloggers who bash health care because those aren't the types of blogs I read.)

Having socialist health care isn't a way of debasing truth, justice, and the American Way. If you are happy with your health care here it doesn't mean you have a tattoo of Karl Marx on your ass, it simply means you're happy with your health care here. I'm not a communist, but as someone who's been in socialist societies for 8 years now, I can see there are elements of them that work.

My past saw me born and raised as an Air Force brat. I was truly immersed in the most patriotic of cultures, in a culture which you didn't question and you were completely and utterly supported from a health, schooling, and housing perspective. I have to say that our health care wasn't the best, not because military doctors aren't good because a lot of them were, but because we moved every 2-4 years and the doctors moved every 2-4 years and it was therefore impossible to build up a doctor-patient relationship in that respect. I think because I never knew what it was like to go to the same pediatrician I saw when I was an infant to when I turned 18 that I am ok with how things operate here, too.

Doctors in America can be fucking fantastic. They really can. You have an amazing amount of choice and expertise at your fingertips, as long as you have access to a reasonably metropolitan area (you're not likely to find a world-renown oncologist in a town of about 600 people.) I honestly had some incredible doctors while I was there.

I also had to pay for them.

When I was in college I had to resort to that status quo of being at patient of the university health care system. Whenever you had anything wrong with you, you were presented with two options: STD and pregnancy testing or Prozac. Clearly the only things wrong with you were the clap or depression. Once I broke two of my toes and still had to convince the doctors that no, I swear for the fourth and final time that I've never had an abortion, now can we please address my broken toes?

I went to the clinic because I had to.

I couldn't afford anything else.

I remember once they prescribed me some antibiotics for a cheerful bout of bronchitis I had. When I went to the pharmacy to pick them up I found that the pills weren't covered by the clinic. I had to walk away without the pills, because I simply didn't have $130 to pay for the damn things. What average college student does?

When I first started working I had what I called Health Care Lite. I was allowed to see a doctor but only if I called the insurance company, spoke to a barking dog-like administrator and convinced her that yes, the bleeding out of my ears really wasn't a good thing, at which point I would get a clearance code to see a doctor from an approved list (and they were always too busy to see people) and I could only have certain prescriptions should they decide medication could stop the hemorrhaging from my aural canals.

I remember my ex-sister-in-law going to give birth at Parkland Hospital because, as she explained, it was a county hospital so they couldn't come after her when it was time to pay the bill. She couldn't afford health insurance and a healthy baby's birth came to a cool $1000, money they didn't have.

We lived in the land of hope and plenty, but not for healthcare for the poor.

I did at one point have really good health insurance. Towards the end of when I lived in the States I was making a fair amount of money (and working myself to an early nervous breakdown.) I worked for a very large company that potentially did care about its employees, and so I had a $10 copay (I had to see my general physician who would refer to me a specialist if I needed it, and it could be any specialist) and a max £1000 a year on meds, at which point they were free after that. My care was excellent. Among the treatments I had was my skin cancer doctor, who was professional, kind, and absolutely excellent.

For the privilege of being able to use this service I paid $400 a month from my paycheck (and again, this was 1999. Costs have surely gone up since then).

And that was just for me, I remember a colleague talking about how much it cost to pay for 4 members of a family, and the costs were frightening. I wondered how he could afford it. Looking at my situation now, of myself, my partner, two stepkids, and a set of twins on the way, I know I could never pay for healthcare there like I did when I was a single woman. When that company laid a lot of us off, I took off to Sweden while a lot of the families searched for jobs and looked at COBRA, which was prohibitively expensive.

Sweden was my first view of socialism. In Sweden, everyone who wants a job can have one and everyone who needs a place to stay can have one. It doesn't mean there isn't unemployment (as I know only too well) and it doesn't mean there aren't homeless, because there are. But there is a lot less of both unemployment and homelessness than many other places. Medical treatment in Sweden is free (unless it's something elective like plastic surgery) and prescriptions are very cheap, with a limit on how much you have to pay per year (it used to be 1300 SEK).

If you are sick in Sweden you go to the hospital. Very few people have a family physician, they're an unusual entity. The hospitals aren't beautiful-enormous concrete structures that are about as soulless as it gets. Most of the doctors aren't Swedish but come from Eastern Europe or Asia and sometimes following either their English or their Swedish is a struggle. I'll be honest-I found that the care is ok there, you will get seen if you are ill, but don't go looking for a cuddle if something is wrong with you. They're not into that. They don't love you and if you don't get better, that's too damn bad (Angus has said similar about his and his kids' experiences in Sweden). They're also not big on medication-if you're ill suck it up, medication is an enabler. If you're truly ill, take a paracetamol (Tylenol). If you're verge of death then-and only then-will you be seeing the business end of a prescription. In general, unless you're chronicaly ill, medication is not that common (I know this. I had a sigmoidoscopy administered without anesthetic. Really makes for an eye-opening experience, I tell you.)

Swedish health care will make the ill better but it won't be a pretty process. They are also seriously intolerant of heavy drinking. I remember once going to the hospital to get stitches in one of my fingers and seeing beds of bleeding passed-out drunks in the hallways. I asked about them and was told that they would be attended to when they sobered up, but not before. This was their punishment. I sure was glad I only had a sliced finger, not a sliced finger while I had been out on a bender.

Compassionate mercy, maybe, is something not included under that particular brand of health care.

When I moved to England I got an NHS number around the time I got a national insurance number (like a social security number). Here you sign up at your local GP's office and you see them when you have a problem. If they can't help you they send you on to a specialist, a process which (in our area) takes a few weeks. The hospitals themselves tend to be soulless, concrete buildings. You tend to have to wait a while before it's your turn.

But I've had great care here.

Doctor visits are free (except for fertility treatments, which do cost, as do, I imagine, plastic surgery and things like that). Prescriptions have a maximum cost of about £6. And while it's true that in some areas of the country they have really, really long waiting lists to see doctors (Angus' dad needed a hip transplant and was looking at a 6 month wait, so he paid for the surgery out-of-pocket to jump the queue), in our area if you're referred to a specialist I've found you'll be seeing one in about a month or two. If you're willing to pay for the service or have private insurance, you can move ahead in the queue. I do have private insurance through work, which costs me about £50 a month, and it covers both Angus and myself. I have used it approximately once, to see a hand specialist about the trigger finger I had. I jumped the queue by 30 days by doing so.

It's true we pay a fucking load of taxes, way more than I did in the States. In Sweden I think I paid around 40% in taxes. It's less than that here but it's still a hell of a lot of tax. But I personally think that the health care I get in return is worth it. If you're sick you see a doctor. Maybe it makes me a bit pink, but I don't think it should matter if you have money or not, everyone should have the right to health care. We can't all be judges, lawyers and stockbrokers, blue collar workers get ill, too. Just because I support social egalitariansim doesn't mean I'm out to rape the Constitution.

People say a lot of bad things about socialism. Socialism isn't the source of all evil that it's said to be, if you're in a socialist country it doesn't mean that Big Brother is looming over your shoulder. I understand that when the railways were under government control they were generally in better shape than the privatized nightmare they are today. Socialized health care is, I think, equated with shoddy doctors and crappy service. But in the three years I've lived here I've had nothing but good care. My doctors are kind and knowledgable. I get seen when I'm ill. I may have a wait for a specialist, but if I need one then I will be seeing one at some point.

Yes it's true that in our geographic area we have better health care than in other areas, and it's true that in some areas there aren't enough doctors and not enough clinics, but I think in some part that's due to doctors being lured off by bigger grander pay in other countries. It's also true that the NHS is apparently running out of money and looking at how to handle health care. There are debates it should be privatized (which I am against) and debates on how to pay for things. Angus' brother thinks that people should have to prove their financial earnings before they can have access to service, but I think his view on that is full of shit. Elitism makes me weep.

People who haven't lived here can trash the health care all they want, but unless they've lived here they simply don't know how it works, and supporting a socialist health care system doesn't make you Red. I get to see a doctor if I need one and it doesn't cost me anything. I get a prescription if I need one, and if it's a fancy antibiotic all I will pay is £6.

No one can tell me that the doctors here don't care and don't try, because I've yet to find one that has let me down. And when I had to go to the hospital bleeding all over the place and miscarrying last August, the doctors were kind and held my hands. They spoke in gentle voices and offered support. They had answers. They spent as long as they needed to talking to me and discussing options with me.

And that, in my opinion, is good health care.

-H.

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June 01, 2007

Friday Round Up

I went to my GP about my cough.

He told me that I had a viral infection, and recommended the following:

1) Paracetamol (Tylenol).
2) Vicks Vap-o-Rub (I may be the only grown up that loves that shit)
3) Holding my head over a bowl of steam.

Seriously.

Fucking steam.

I looked at him and wondered if he thought I was a choo-choo train.

He said antibiotics won't help as it's viral (I understand that part) and cough syrups are out because the only ones safe for someone in my state have codeine in them, and I'm allergic to codeine.

Steam. I do get that it will help break up the congestion in my head and throat, but seriously-Laura Ingalls Wilder called. She wants her life back.

While I'm at it, I'll make a few poultices up and drink some castor oil.


**************************************


I had to go pick up a prescription, which naturally wasn't ready. When you do IVF, for a period of time after the embryos are put into the female microwave oven in hopes of them actually staying put, you're put on a progesterone supplement. In the States, this is called PIO, or progesterone in oil, which is a shot of progesterone with a needle straight out of Pulp Fiction. Here, it comes in the form of suppositories which you bend over and insert twice a day.

The PIO crowd complain about the needles.

Lemme' tell you-stuffing waxy bullet-shaped drugs up your backside is no picnic, either. Especially because the damn things leak. And they mess up your insides. And for an IBS sufferer like me that has a real phobia about anything relating to the ass, they're even worse because you have to use your finger and push them way up there (the instructions recommend you wash your hands after inserting one of them. In case, you know, it never occurred to you that it might be a wee bit foul to not wash your hands after sticking them where the sun doesn't shine). You can put the suppositories in vaginally but they make one unholy mess and pretty much rule out anyone being interested in snacking at your snack bar unless you've been hosed down with a flame thrower.

If you get pregnant, you stay on the progesterone until week 12.

In the UK, if you're pregnant with twins, you stay on them until week 28 as they help prevent pre-term labor.

In other words, twice a day I have to confront one of my phobias.

And it will continue for another 10 weeks.

This, then, will be the "see what I had to go through" story for my children. It won't be about walking to school 5 miles uphills in the snow, nosiree. It'll be about having to push my finger up my ass twice a day for 28 weeks*.

Now that's love.


**************************************


It's June 1.

I've already bought quite a few Christmas presents for a holiday 6 months away.

Is that weird?


**************************************


Angus bakes the best brownies in the world, ever.

Really, he does. It shames me to admit that my brownies pale in comparison to his brownies.

I'm not big on desserts, and these days I'm off sweets at all really, but the other day I was desperate for one of his brownies, so he kindly agreed to make me some. On of the ingredients in his recipe is cherries, which he soaks in rum overnight first.

I walked in to the kitchen to see him sneaking one out of the bowl.

"I bought dried cherries," he says. "It's not fresh cherry season yet."

"I saw some the other week," I say getting a glass of water. "I really wanted to buy them but felt the price wasn't justified."

"I went looking for the American ones," he says. "American cherries are the best."

And my brain was so full of retorts to that statement that it self-destructed.


-H.


*Yes, it will be worth it.

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May 31, 2007

I Am Not a Bloody Genie

Had a meeting with some folk all morning.

My stomach was rubbed.

Twice.

Imagine how pleased I am about that.

-H.

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May 30, 2007

Yeah, Really, I Just Laid There

The Lemonheads are moving along. I still haven't gained any more weight than the 7 kilos (15 pounds) I put on in the first 12 weeks, and I know I keep going on about it but I simply just don't look 4.5 months pregnant with twins. The other twin moms at similar growth rates that I see in pics look two or three times my size already. And I do eat, I really do. But the only things that I crave are fruit and Fig Newtons (which Beach Girl and Angela have been kind enough to send over, because the fig rolls you can get here? Not the same.)

We got scanned yesterday, actually. It wasn't planned but based on various symptoms I was showing I rang up the hospital and they said they'd like to see me. So off Angus and I trooped, where we checked in to labor and delivery, and I got fingered by the doctor (I had no idea they check your cervix. Seriously. I'm about as woefully ignorant about birthing as I am about welding. In fact, I might be more clued up about welding. Lemme get my goggles.) Then we got the fun with goo and ultrasound wands as they checked on the Lemonheads.

Both Lemonheads were alive and kicking.

Literally, actually, as Lemonhead #2 was kicking its sibling in the head.

What came out of the hospital visit-besides us seeing the babies, who look more like the Alein bad guy Giger drew than real babies-is that the little Lemonheads, they just keep going. Even with a severe cough that's so bad I've sprained both of my abdominal muscles, they keep persevering (the abdominal muscles are the reason why we got to go to hospital at all.)

Today I'm exactly 18 weeks pregnant. For twins, this means I've met the halfway point. Single babies, they get to party in the uterus for 40 weeks, but twins generally get the eviction at about 36 weeks.

And if I can follow the old cliche, I'd like to say this-I can't believe I've made it this far. We're a long way from being done and are certainly not out of the woods-should something go wrong and I go into labor today, the babies would not survive. But still-I got to see them do Tae Kwon Do in utero, and that's something that will live with me always.

Being pregnant has suddenly opened my eyes to certain elements of how people react. I think it's the case with all pregnancies in that suddenly you are the world's oyster, but with twins you somehow get shuttled into a different category, one in which people's mouths get unplugged from their brains. It's happened again and again and I can tell you a few things that already annoy me:

1) When people say "You'll never sleep in again." or "You'd better sleep now, while you still can!" Actually I will be sleeping again, thanks. The first few months may be a bit sleep deprived but that too shall pass. We're not heavy duty sleepers in this house anyway-although lately we've been sleeping late because we cough all night long and aren't feeling well, we typically wake up around 7 am. If our kids wind up sleeping 7 hours a night soon then we'll all be on the same schedule.

2) When people say "Ooooh twins! You have an instant family!" OK, see, twins are not a Carnation breakfast drink. Yes, twins + adults = typical family, complete with dog, house, and picket fence. But I had a family before I will be having babies. I have a boy and a dog and two pain in the ass cats. I have two stepkids. I have a family, I'm just augmenting my existing one. Saying that NOW I have a family denigrates what I currently have.

3) The big one for me-when people find out it's twins, it becomes all about Angus' sperm.

See, now, I can't really explain why this winds me up so much, it just does. Yes, Angus has fantastic, wall-splitting, super hard-working sperm. We do actually know this, because unlike most men that get to imbibe too much beer and grope the Mrs before landing a little Budweiser Junior in the hot pocket, Angus was offered a sad choice of porn (including, he says, some car magazines, which I find all kinds of strange) and a tupperware container (I begged him to stick his head out the door and shout an inquiry as to if they had any Asian porn, but he refused). So Angus does actually know how his little guys are doing, since we got a print-out result of it.

This is some of the following used to assess an acceptable sperm analysis (as according to the World Health Organization):

Volume:
2.0 mL or more

Total Sperm Count:
40 x 106 spermatozoa per ejaculate or more

pH:
7.2 or higher

Sperm Concentration:
20 x 106 spermatozoa / mL or more

Motility:
50% or more motile (grade a+b) or 25% or more with progressive motility (grade a) within 60 minutes of ejaculation.

Morphology:
WHO Criteria for assessing normal sperm morphology defines the following:
Head:The head should be oval and smooth. Round, pyriform, pin, double and amorphous heads are all abnormal.
Midpiece: The midpiece should be straight and slightly thicker than the tail.
Tail:The tail should be single, unbroken, straight and without kinks or coils.
A minimum of 100 sperm must be counted that qualify the above criteria.

Vitality:
50% or more live.

Also, you shouldn't have any pus in the sperm.

That totally makes you want to swallow, I know.

Angus met the criteria. It's gotta be pretty nerve-wracking for a guy to hear how many sperm were present, how many of them were lazy couch potatoes and how many of them were short bus. But my guy, he exceeded the norms, which for a 45 year-old has to feel pretty good (or for a guy of any age, really).

But upon finding out that I'm packing twins, the general response from my colleagues and, indeed, from pretty much most of the men we know, is this:

Duuuuuuuuuude! Way to go, Angus!

Excuse me? What, it's all thanks to the amazing sexual potency of the man? Do people think his semen has the high velocity impact of a fire hose and I am helplessly plowed into the wall when he ejaculates? No one seems to give a shit about the male aptitude when a woman has a single baby, why is it such a big deal when there are multiples?

I've heard it again and again from other men (Angus, thankfully, is not of the "It's all down to me" category). "Tell him great work!" or "He's really a man's man!" or other such comments along similarly chauvinistic lines.

Let's do a little bit of biology, shall we?

Say I was carrying identical twins (which I'm not). You know how many of Angus' Super Grip Action Men would be used in the fertilization process? One. One single determined sperm. True, the egg would be under attack from lots of swimmers, but two kids will come out of one sperm. It's the embryo that divides (generally speaking. There is an occurance called semi-identical twins, which takes two sperm and one egg, but it's extremely rare).

In that scenario, then, it's my body's contribution that does all the work.

So in our case of fraternal twins-to have our two babies, we need two sperm. Yes, again, there are 400,000 billion all having a stag do in my uterus (or, in our case, a petri dish). But only two are actually used. And as far as eggs go you need two of those as well. So we have equal contributions to what's happening.

In other words, Angus' sperm hasn't rocked the fertility world any more than my eggs have done.

Yet for men this is not essential information. It doesn't matter that good egg quality is a very important issue, too. I am the innocent bystander, the recipient of the incredible fecundity known as the male reproductive system. I am lucky I can catch his virility in a bucket, I guess. Color me blessed.

It's true that almost no one in our real life knows we've been through IVF, and I don't really see that it's any of their business, either. And it's true-my eggs this time were a bit shite (we donated 4 to another woman and so far we're too chicken to find out if it worked for her. The last time we donated eggs the woman didn't get pregnant and I was pretty cut up with guilt about that.) It's true that Angus' sperm were "washed", a process in which only the best and the brightest were presented to my 10 pack-a-day smoker eggs and his Head Boys had to do a lot of work. But I'm a bit pissed off at the resounding good ol' boy back-slapping going on with regards to sperm acknowledgements. Yes, Angus is a great man. Yes, his sperm can unite villages in remarkable peace processes.

But it took two to tango.

I asked my therapist about this, not because I had any emotional angst about this, but because I couldn't figure out what the fuck was up with the "Way to go, Angus!" remarks.

My therapist - a nice older man with 5 grown children of his own - offered me this:

"I know you're not going to like this, and unlike all the other things we talk about, this has no basis in psycholigical analysis or depth. The reason men react that way to Angus has one explanation only-it's because we're men. Generally speaking, we don't do well with emotional situations like this. While women celebrate the pregnancy, men have to connect on a level that other men understand."

"So it's just basically because 'boys will be boys'?" I ask. I wonder if this is when I start practicing my shebonics and burning my bras in protest. I wonder if I can start educating the men around me or, failling that, if a good smack will do the job.

"Sorry, but yes," he replies. "This is how a lot of men relate to each other, you can't change it."

So I guess I'll have to start working on just accepting that this, this is going to be the male reaction to the rest of my pregnancy and, I assume, the rest of our twins' lives. Good thing I love Angus a lot, otherwise the temptation to shout that it's not all about his sperm would be overwhelming.

Today I'm 18 weeks pregnant with the magical love sperm that Angus donated to my egg basket.

I'm doing well so far.

When people ask when I'm due, I tell them that foaling season starts beginning October.

I find that very funny.

So far I'm alone in finding that very funny, but I'll let you know how I get on with that.

-H.

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May 29, 2007

Another Kind of Love

The Memorial Dar weekend (we had Monday off here, too) was spent in a flurry of depression over the seriously foul weather (it rained all weekend, complete with gale-force winds and chilly temperatures) and petty arguments over nothing, arguments which cast the house in a gloomy color of mocha. I spent a lot of it hoping to get through the weekend without actually coughing up a lung or forcibly ejecting my uterus out the downward escape hatch, and it seems better today but I remain on the homemade pregnancy approved cough syrup (I do at least sound like a heavy smoker. Or at least I did until I basically spoke in a hazy wheeze last night, but I'm back to heavy smoker sounding.)

There seems to be so much to do, all of it of that level of bullshit that you generally hate doing-phone the bank. Call the doctor. Check on how we're doing on the nursery waiting lists. Ring architects. Book up hotels for our trip to Scotland, all of which seem to be full, and of course when I do finally find one that can take us it's not what was wanted, so apparently I fucked up (again). Work through 1,000 lines of Microsoft Excel in hopes of getting my project moving forward, instead of stalled in technical hell. I'm so endlessly frustrated by thoughts of what I want to write, but which only come to life in brain occasionally, trapped by my laziness and lack of confidence. My "to-do" list is exhausting, and that's without picking up the phone.

That said, I've been striking things off the list so far today. It feels good to get things done (prescription filled, one nursery has a bit of hope, architect will be by tomorrow for site survery, Excel spreadsheet done, I've completely fucking bored you now, etc. But at least it's getting better.

Yesterday the sky was dark and hostile. The wind was bitterly cold and violent-the hammock had gone for a sail across the back garden, the upbeat stripes muddied by the mud-smeared turf. The darkness matched my thoughts.

I walk up to Angus, who is working away at Turbo CAD on the downstairs PC.

"I'm not a very good person," I say quietly.

"Why's that?" he asks looking up at me.

I have been thinking about this. "There's someone I'm supposed to love, but I don't. I used to. Now I don't love them anymore. If I'm supposed to love them and I don't, then that makes me a bad person."

I really don't love someone anymore, it's not me with a knee jerk reaction, it's not me re-visiting the monochrome of my mental illness salad days. I've thought about it and thought about it in my quiet and difficult short bus way of thinking that I have these days. The inside of me is better, so much better I don't even recognize who I used to be, but part of that better means that I have to spend a lot of time trying to figure out what it is I really feel about something.

I have people in my life that I love greatly, that I love so much I don't like to imagine them not being around. This isn't to say that I would die without them, because I don't think healthy love is supposed to work like that. It just means that life without them is more bleak than I think I know how to bear, and I know bleak. Bleak owes me money.

I have people in my life that I like and enjoy. When I'm in their company, I have a great time. I may not think about them all the time and I may not see them often, but they are a happy part of my sidelines, and I like to have them there.

I have people in my life that I don't like. I'd get rid of them, but they're largely in my professional life, and you can't really detach yourself from that. If you work, chances are that there will be someone you clash with.

I have people that I'm estranged from, but still love (how can one not?). This list is short but it exists. Maybe you're thinking I should make up with them and move on, but the estrangement is enforced from both sides-sometimes we all need a little sandbagging to keep our castles from being breached. Some estrangement is necessary for the time being, and although it's sad, it's simply the way it is.

I have a few people in my life that I loathe and detest. This might be bad karma. This might be not a good way of working. It might be best that I don't go near these people or have anything to do with them, and generally speaking, I usually don't have anything to do with them. These people make my ulcer explode and my temper rise. I cannot resist a challenge from them. I don't do well even thinking about them.

And then I find this new category, this new space. Someone from one of my lists has fallen, and fallen hard. I don't love them anymore. It's as easy and as complicated as that. I don't wish them and their family any ill, I genuinely hope life goes for them the way it's supposed to go. I just don't love them anymore, and I don't want to see them again.

This makes me a bad person. I'm supposed to love this person. I used to love this person. This isn't the bitterness talking, something inside of me has shifted. Should I buck the nature of responsibility? Should I say to myself: Gee, you awful bitch, what the fuck is wrong with you? How could you not love that person? What kind of complete waste of human material are you?

Or should I just say: Yeah, you don't love them anymore. Maybe that could be changed or maybe this is just a part of life, only one of those parts that no one talks about anymore? People stop loving people in their lives, even ones they should continue to care about. It happens. It's not something to celebrate, maybe, but it happens.

Angus looks at me. "That person hasn't behaved very well," he says softly. "It doesn't make you a bad person."

But there are places where the darkness seeps that no one can get to.

Not even me.

So I'll write my documents and make my phone calls and listen to my iPod and I will watch the stormclouds roll in over the backgarden and I will know that they rain for me, and for all that I've dried up inside of myself.

-H.

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May 25, 2007

Not Just an Island with Herve Villechaize

So we're a bit....um...liberal when it comes to the mechanics involving sex. I don't mean we march around naked (although he's prone to) and I don't mean liberal as in us walking around carrying signs saying "Trotsky simply wasn't committed enough...and blow jobs are life, comrade!"

No, I mean we have always had a very honest, open approach to sex and issues surrounding sex in our household. Maybe it's because of how our relationship evolved, i.e. it was already naughty, let's just throw the rest of the naughty in, too. Maybe it's because we've both been burned and we've both had horrifically bad lovers in the past (this is not a go at his ex-wife or my ex-husband, either. We have had others. Suffice to say neither of us were virgins when we married.) Or perhaps it's simply because we both agree that with each other we are the best sexual compadres in the whole wide world, ever, and as such we can open up the cans of worms (don't take it personally. I'm not insulting your sexual performance. I'm sure you do a great job hanging ten in the double bed.)

Did you ever watch Sex and the City? I confess that I actually did watch it, not because I found what they had going on in their lives remotely relevant to my life in any way, shape or form (prior to the show I thought "Manolo Blahniks" was likely a Sicilian sausage product), but because their one-liners were wicked. They were hideously fast and I'm not that quick on my feet. I think of one-liners hours afterwards, when I'm either on the train home or snug in my bed, and although I get to punch the air with the sudden inspiration of my retort it's pretty meaningless.

Angus and I tend to have discussions along the same lines that Sex and the City did, or at least we do when it comes to sex (I haven't spent $40,000 on shoes. The idea isn't even tempting, and I do love me some shoes.) There's nothing that's against the rules in terms of discussing. There's also nothing against the rules in terms of activities, but that's a different discussion. We don't talk about sex constantly but it does come up, and when it does it's generally in a very matter of fact way.

One of the things which I think sets us apart is the area of fantasies. As in: We have them. I think fantasizing is a very, very taboo subject in most relationships. Fantasies lead to problems. If you dream about someone/something, then it opens the door to questions like: "Am I not enough?", "Why would you think about someone else?", or the worst: "Do I not satisfy you?"

Oh you do, darling, you do. I'd just rather think of John Cusack taking me roughly in a dark alley while we wonder if we will find the nuclear bomb in time to defuse it, thereby saving all of mankind.

Every partner I've ever had has asked me that magical question-What do you fantastize about?

I learnt early on that the correct response is: You, baby. I fantasize about you.

I learnt this the hard way. One evening while having a session with an ex who I'll call the Bunny Humper (I'm sure you can work out why it is I called him that), he asked me that loaded question - What do you fantastize about?

Caught up in the moment, I thought about it before deciding that this would be the moment I came clean. Marie Claire, Cosmopolitan, and Carrie Bradshaw would thank me (Redbook wouldn't, they're a bit conservative for this kind of thing). I decided to come clean with one of my fantasies. "Sometimes, I fantasize about a threesome," I answer.

"...Oh. With people you know?"

"Oh yes."

"Am I there?"

"No."

"So...who's it with?" came the query.

Had I been remotely keyed in and not enjoying the moment of my little fantasy, I might have noticed his pace was now off. Perhaps I would have heard the strained sound in his voice. But since I had the emotional receptivity of a Muppet at that moment, I caught neither. And so I did the unthinkable. I named names. And I even took it a step further...I named the folk and told the Bunny Humper that I thought about them when I had myself a magical play session for one.

In other words, I took his loaded question and I blew our sex life right out of our skulls.

We didn't last long after that.

I had crossed many lines there, you see. Not only did I admit I have fantasies, but I admitted they weren't always about my partner (as far as the Bunny Humper goes, the fantasies were actually never about him.) The real nail in the coffin was that I had a solitary romp in the hay that he didn't know about.

Let's examine.

Fantasies, I think, may imply to people that their partner isn't getting enough out of the bed bouncing. I think a lot of people see this as "What I'm not doing/can't give them/not interested in". But to me a fantasy is just that-something made up. Am I ever going to get John Cusack taking me passionately in an alleyway? No, and maybe that's ok because rumor has it he did Britney Spears and I'm not really interested in going on prophylactic antibiotics just because. I have other fantasies, too, generally involving some element of danger (and I confess an occasional fleeting fantasy that I am Leeloo to Bruce Willis' Corbin in that final scene of The Fifth Element, where they're having sex in that glass box. They had just saved the world, you know. I'm pretty sure that kind of thing gives people stiffies.) Perhaps I fantasize because life can be a bit same-y. Maybe I have those fantasies for the adrenaline. Maybe I have them because danger implies a lack of control, and in a fantasy a lack of control is ok, whereas in real life it's not.

One evening early on in our relationship Angus went out on a limb and told me one of his fantasies.

Instead of feeling upset that I wasn't enough, I found it highly erotic.

In turn I told him one of mine.

We still do this. From time to time we're able to make the other person's fantasy come true. If we're not, that's cool.

And if he tells me a fantasy that doesn't involve me, that's cool, too.

Even weirder is if he names a woman he's fantasizing about. Say he's hot for Susan Lucci (he's not, and I don't think he even knows who she is). He could tell me, describe his fantasy, and I would find it perfectly ok that he's fantasizing about someone else (even La Lucci, who's old enough to be his grandmother.)

The truth is, I don't buy that people only fantasize about their partners. It's not a sign of not loving them enough, of not fancying them. The whole point of a fantasy is that it's something that you don't have in your life and probably will never have. That's the reason for whittling away hours making fantasies up. Angus has me, so he should feel free to occasionally hotly dream about someone else. I can see there's a fine line between "occasional fantasy" and "problem", but we haven't hit that point yet, and I don't think we will.

Which leads me to the other taboo-in a lot of relationships, I think it's not ok to take matters into your own hands, so to speak. No spanking the monkey. No punching the clown. Buffing the weasel is not kosher. Paddling the pink canoe is off limits.

And I do actually know people that say they never rub the unicorn horn. I don't buy that, I don't see how you can go through life without shaking hands with the unemployed, I think it's impossible.

(I'll stop with the masturbation slang terms now.)

(OK, just one more, because it made me laugh-dropping stomach pancakes.)

(Sorry. Done now.)

And that's the other area in our love life where we're perfectly honest-we don't mind at all if the other person needs a bit of self-relief. Sometimes you have 5 minutes, the other person isn't home/is walking the dog/is mowing the lawn and frankly, you feel like a bit of relief will make the moment. So have at it. We don't generally tell each other when we've done so, but we're not hiding anything, either.

I approached Angus this morning as he was coming down the stairs. "Would you like to have a bit of action later?" I ask, peering in to the open pocket crotch of his boxer shorts. What? It was eye level, I had to check it out.

"Absolutely. I've been saving up all week," he replied.

I've had a horrific cold all week, complete with runny nose, sneezing, and coughs that a 60 year-old 10 pack-a-day smoker would envy. Sex has been off the menu, as my only real objective this week is to breathe my way through my mucus.

"All week? So you haven't played with yourself at all?" I ask, surprised.

"Nope," he replied. "But I don't think it's unusual for chaps to go for a week without any."

"I do. I can't imagine most people go that long without a release," I comment.

"They probably do," he said.

"I doubt it. I think in most relationships, people aren't ok with their partners masturbating. I think they probably do it anyway, but I bet that it's not considered ok."

"I imagine it probably is. You can't be doing it all the time, and some people have high sex drives."

So I offer it to you-how common is it to masturbate when you're in a relationship?

And if you're in a relationship, would you be angry if your partner did masturbate?

(Consider this fact finding. Enquiring minds want to know.)

-H.

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May 24, 2007

They Say That Home Ownership is Stressful. They'd Be Right.

When we first laid eyes on our perfect little house, we knew that it was the perfect little house for us.

And the emphasis on that has always been with the word "little".

We live in this area of England because it gives us:

1) Easy access to Heathrow for his kids to come visit
2) Easy access into London for work, which does dictate we come in to the office at least once a week
3) Easy enough to commute into either Waterloo or Victoria in south central London for work
4) Enough distance that we don't get drop-ins from his mom (I love her. Really I do. I just don't love her dropping in on a Sunday afternoon when I'm planning my new rendition of Afternoon Get My Freak On. Plus, I like notice so that I can vacuum. We all have an anal retentive fidget, mine is preferring that the living room doesn't resemble the Dust Bowl.)

So yeah.

We actually do need to stay in this area. Which is ok, because I honestly love this part of the country. Sure, it's not very hilly. True, we're nowhere near the water. Yes, it is a hit-or-miss kind of county in which some towns are amazing and perfect and some towns are shit.

When we found our perfect little house - and I'm not trying to be cutesy here, I simply love this house - it had a strange price. It was in the range that we were willing to pay for a house, but it was heading towards the upper side of the range. Still, we couldn't understand how our house was priced where it was - a fully detached home with a massive and very well maintained garden (or at least it was until we came along, anyway) in a quiet and 100% safe commuter-belt area outside of London, perched as it is on the end of a country lane in the middle of nowhere. It should actually have been priced higher than it was. It was as though there was something too good to be true. Although I could have done without unclogging ancient drains and the whole serious smorgasbord of wildlife that is Mumin's continuous banquet, I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the bad news to come out.

But there isn't any bad news. The house was simply priced to sell, and sell fast (the widow who lived here decided it was time to move out and move on, and that time was right fucking now.) The house is just as it said on the label. It's brick and glass and has 100% of the RDA of riboflavin. So we sat back and decided to enjoy it for a year, while we decided what to do to it in terms of extensions and removations.

The house is wonderful, but it does need modernizing. The two toilets often require multiple flushes, screamed threats involving use as petunia planters, promises of virgin sacrifices, or all of the above to clear the bowl. The kitchen is a whole new death-defying description of butt-fucking ugly - tile countertops, a non-working kitchen fan, and about the stupidest layout for anyone that actually cooks. It's such a joy. There's only one shower in the house (this is a problem, especially with a 15 year-old girl around). There are only three bedrooms, and this is three bedrooms too little as we need one for Angus and I, one for Melissa, and one for Jeff, but unfortunately Jeff's bedroom doubles as Angus' study. And now we need more bedrooms for the new arrivals (although they will not only share a room but will share a crib for some time. Apparently twins do better if they sleep together for a while, as that's all they knew while they were still in the Big House.) In addition, both Angus and I largely work from home, so we need a study each (we really do need a study each, as we are often on different conference calls and you can't do them from the same room). And there are only two closets in the whole house, there is absolutely no storage anywhere.

Even without the babies on the way an extension was always in the works. We're already out of space. We just wanted to live here for a while and see what it was like, what we would want to change, what we felt needed improving. It's just now we have a little more pressure. We know the extension won't be ready in time for the babies' arrival, which is now about 4 months away. Unfortunately, Jeff will lose his bedroom to the twins while Angus takes my study (which is the former dining room-we don't see much use for a formal dining room these days) and Jeff gets the sofa bed, but Jeff will get the bribe of allowing the dog to sleep in the living room with him and the promise that he gets first pick of the new bedrooms. We think he'll be ok with that.

We contacted two architects last week and had them come round for discussions and quotes. They're both RIBA certified, which is important to us, and both locals. Many discussions were had.

Angus and I have been saving money for a long time. When we were still living in the various rented homes, we chucked well over a third of our monthly salaries into savings, just so that we could apply it to a house someday. Now that we have said house, said savings go to the mortgage, but we built up a nest egg when we could. That nest egg, augmented with other things, is the foundation for the extension. We are nowhere near rich, either of us, and after the twins start day care we'll be riding the strict budget wave for a while. But we have been saving up for years to have the home that we want.

We want to expand the house to:

- 5 bedrooms
- At least 2 bathroooms, preferably 3
- Build out the kitchen and living room
- Move the stairway (currently, it's right inside the front door. The hallway is tight, dark, and has no room for storage)
- Move the garage, or at the very least re-roof it with an eye to building a room on top of it someday
- Re-do the exterior. Some brainiac had the idea at one point to cover the brick with pebbledash, which we hate and which is not in great condition.
- Prepare the house for solar energy, both water and PV
- New windows (ours are single-glazed and thus allow heat to escape), a new hot water heater (ours is many years old and just stops working periodically) and a new heating system (see: water heater)

Angus and I will do the kitchens and bathrooms ourselves, from fitting the countertops and appliances/shower to tiling. Believe it or not, we like doing that kind of thing. Angus has already put in a few kitchens and bathrooms at other houses, and I too was part of a kitchen installation in Sweden (also, strangely enough I really enjoy tiling, which makes me one weird chick.) We'll also rip out the last remaining carpets in the house and install wooden floorboards ourselves, as well as various other bits and pieces throughout the house.

The architects both said that the sum of money we had would do the job. Just. Which makes me feel very uncomfortable, as building works generally never seem to go according to plan and I hate the idea that we'll need to up our mortgage while simultaneously wiping out our entire savings. They also agreed that everything we're planning will increase the sales value of the house, which is also important.

Then came the details.

It will take us over 6 months alone just to get planning permission from the council to build our house. Every council has requirements for building and extending of homes. Councils are notorious for being picky, difficult to deal with, slow, aggravating, expensive, and petty. Everyone I know who has had work done has a horror story to tell. The architects warned us that even though all the work we would like is fair, and since not one of our neighbors is anywhere near where we'd plan to build so there shouldn't be an issue, that undoubtedly the council would find some reason to reject our plans.

Time-wise, it comes down to this-it'll take about 6 months to get planning permission, so around the end of the year we maybe will have a "go". Then we wait for the builders. Builders are in huge demand here, and all of them have waiting lists a mile long. Not only that, but they are heart-stoppingly expensive. If you don't want to pay their prices, fine. They'll go to the next person on the list, then, have a nice life. Once we get a builder, the actual construction will take about 4-5 months. Then it's many more months for Angus and I to finish things off.

This means that building will start next Spring, whereupon the entire back of the house will be ripped out. Gone. Think flapping plastic sheets in the wind. And there are only two rooms of the house that will remain untouched, so Angus, myself, and two infants will be living in those two rooms (my study and the guest room) while the entire home is attacked. And Angus, I have a feeling he's not going to handle the mess and stress of living on a building site very well. He's a fantastic boy and I love him madly, but I can already see the depression coming our way.

And to top it all off, one quote came back from one of the architects. It was £50,000 over what we'd budgeted.

We're going with the other architect, whose quote was substantially lower (but is still so high it makes me want to drink. Or sit and breathe into a paper bag. Or both). But his quote was lower as he doesn't project manage the building site, so it means that we'll be project managing the house building for the most part, along with the construction engineer from the builder. If I'm not back to work yet, I will try to manage a lot of it (and actually, I'm honestly interested in managing aspects of it.) I'll just need to buy the twins some hard hats and teach them how to efficiently use nail guns, I think*.

Right about now, you're maybe saying "Jesus, woman, just move house." Or maybe you already zoned out, bored, and are surfing the web to pick out the perfect eyebrow liner (psst-Benefit Brow Zing. That's what you seek.) But we can't do that either.

England has some of the most shocking house prices I've ever seen, ever. If you're a fresh-faced, happy young couple I don't know how you get on the property ladder, I really don't. Houses are ball-numbingly expensive. And interest rates have gone up, so the repayment is also hard. Since moving into this house over a year ago, houses in our area have skyrocketed in price. This is good news, I suppose-it means we've already made money on our house in under 14 months. But the bad news is that houses in our area that were selling for around £450-500,000 are now well over that. Two bedroom homes are selling for £350,000. Some houses around the corner from us were just listed for sale. The gardens are so tiny that if you stand in the backyard and squint you'll almost be able to see a blade or two of grass, and the rooms in the house are humble. The smaller of the two houses is going for £560k. The larger one is nearly touching the £600k mark. Combine the cost of a house with things like moving costs, stamp duty, estate agent fees, etc and the truth is, we'll save money by staying here and simply extending. We'll save a LOT of money by staying put. Or, to put it simply, we don't know that we can afford to move now.

So the stress will be on.

I'm calling the architect as soon as I post this, and the game will be afoot.

Wish us luck.

We're going to need it.


-H.


*To stave off any of those kind of comments, if you think I'm even remotely serious about giving my kids nail guns then you're not very keyed up about me. I'm nervous about giving my 45 year-old boy a nail gun, never mind two little beings that can't yet hold their heads upright.

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May 23, 2007

Little Miss Inscrutable

My entire life my face has given everything away.

I'm one of those people who couldn't have a poker face if thrust a fireplace tool up my nose and tried. I don't know what it is about me, but apparently I give away my every thoughts every time I have one (which is often, as my brain is generally going 1,000 mph). Maybe it's my eyes, maybe they hold up a sign saying "Angry-back off now!" Maybe I twitch my mouth in a "Jesus, what a stupid idea!" manner. Perhaps my cheeks radiate a "I really like you" glow.

My team always used to know when I was pissed off and I never knew how they knew that. We'd be in a meeting and someone would report something, and within moments people would be looking at me with that "Whoa dude-she's going to blow" look. And in general, they'd be right. But I thought I was sitting there looking as cool as a cucumber, they couldn't possibly know I was about to blow a gasket.

Yet they did.

So I never get to hold cards close to my chest. For this reason, I'm not a poker player. Well, ok, I lied-I'm also not a poker player because I simply cannot ever remember if a flush beats a straight and all of those tiers, and if you play a game where you throw in wild cards I'm really fucked as I generally forget what they all were, so I could have been sitting there with a hand consisting of 4 aces, but if I forget that whole "2s and 4s wild" bit, then I throw away good hands.

That, and apparently my face lights up when I get a good hand.

Screwed, you see.

I decided over the weekend that I'm going to work on being more inscrutable. Inscrutable is good. Inscrutable will give me an edge. I'll have an aura of mystery about me now, people in my real life will have to regard me with caution and amazement as they cluck their tongues and remark: I simply never know what that woman is thinking. What an enigma.

You know, instead of how I am today, which is more emotionally obvious than a Mr. Men or Little Miss book.

I decided to start yesterday. I had an absolutely full day of meetings in central London, some of which were the first meetings I would have with some of my new project team, which I'd only been communicating with via email and telephone prior to yesterday. I figured-new team, new chance to be Little Miss Inscrutable.

Heading into one of the conference rooms, I exuded confidence (I thought, anyway). I would be suave. I would not give everything away in my face. I would be Little Miss Mystery.

I walked to a conference room, only it wasn't the room I'd booked. Where was the room I'd booked? I wandered around the hallway confused, much like you do if your car gets towed-you wander around in the now empty parking space sure you left the car right there, so how could it no longer be there? I did exactly that-I wandered around the end of the hallway, sure that the conference room was supposed to be there. So why wasn't it where I'd left it?

I went back to the concierge.

"Are you all right?" asked the nice concierge.

My face was clearly in the Little Miss Confused mode.

"Yeah, I just...do you know where room 112 is?"

"Yes, it's been re-numbered to room 116," he replied kindly.

"Oh. Thanks!" I replied, and headed for the room with the numbering identity problem.

I entered the room and shook hands with my new team. "I'm Helen," I say, introducing myself. I settle in, turn on the laptop, and reach for the skinny blueberry muffin I'd picked up to munch on.

"I thought Americans always watched their weight," one of the new guys said in a merry "I mean exactly the opposite" kind of way.

I consciously tired to ensure that my face did now show Little Miss Fuck Off.

"We do. This is a low-fat muffin," I say brightly. I decided I would be Little Miss Accommodating to Your Provincial Humor.

"No offense," he added hastily, looking at me.

I see I failed at pulling off inscrutable already, and it's my first meeting of the day.

At my next meeting, I decide to try again. Clean slate, new start to being unreadable. I head for the meeting once again with my head held high and the confidence that I can be a new Helen, one that doesn't give away her every thought.

"Hi, Helen," my colleague greets me.

I exude Little Miss Confident.

"Are you feeling ok? You look like you're going to be ill," he inquires kindly.

Shit. I fucked up Little Miss Inscrutable again.

"Me? No, I'm fine," I smile. He continues to look confused. "Ok, maybe a little bit ill," I lie. I wasn't remotely ill, but I didn't want to tell him that yesterday was an exercise in getting my poker face on and I am batting 0-2.

We discussed planning objectives for the project. I reported on one element of the project, he reported on another. He agreed to take one angle that would be a lot of work.

He looks at me. "I can see you're pleased about that."

I am Little Miss Tails Wags Like a Puppy, So Please Throw the Tennis Ball Again.

I get home. Angus looks at me. "You look tired," he says. "Can I get you anything?"

I give up.

Little Miss Inscrutable can go to hell.

-H.

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May 21, 2007

Iceland Ice Cap Re-Cap

Iceland was as raw as I thought it would be.

We headed out at oh-God-hundred on Wednesday morning, hurtling to Gatwick Airport at times when not even the donut man is thinking about making the donuts. We parked our car at a long-term parking place, took the shuttle to the airport, and checked in. It was all basically according to our usuals, including Angus getting into a big argument with security, which saw me frantically pushing him through the metal detector and hoping to Christ we didn't get arrested, and then some time in the BA business lounge while I dialled down the intense ulcer explosion said security bust-up enforced on me.

Once in Reykjavik, we passed through immigrations, customs, and got our rental car, a little Toyota Yaris (if you're not familiar with the Yaris, think "economy car meets bean can" and you've got it.) Armed with our usual travel Bible, the Avis courtesy map, and some tax-free candies, we hit the road.

Iceland is the size of England but with a population of only around 220,000. Sat smack on the two teutonic plates that form the base for North America and Europe, it is a hotbed (pun intended) of activity from a geological perspective-the island is covered in dormant volcanoes which are evidenced by the many, many lava fields that run throughout Iceland. Iceland also has many geysers and bubbling hot springs from water that just appears out of the surface of the ground. For this reason, Iceland is able to say that (aside from cars), it is a completely green country in terms of energy-it only uses wind and geothermic heating, and to that end it only uses 17% of the possible amount it could be using, as its needs are just not high enough to use more energy.

This makes Iceland one of our favorite countries, as it's true that both Angus and I are a couple of crunchy granola hippies who are always on the lookout for environmentally friendly alternatives (but we admit the fact that we use airplanes is naughty. Very naughty.)

We drove through many lavafields, in fact.


Icelandic Lavafield (one of many!)


It's surreal to know that there's a road simply cut through where once a raging volcano's lava fell. We made our way to Stykkisholmur, which is a fishing village on the far Western peninsula. We stopped at an old church on the way, which was stunning in its setting as it sat below a massive glacier called Snaefellsjokull.


Icelandic church 2


We also stopped at a local beach. I had the feeling I was being watched at one point, and sure enough, I looked up and I was. About 20 feet away was a set of cow-like eyes and bushy whiskers calmly checking me out.


I'm being watched


We stayed the night in Stykkisholmur, where we had one of the greatest meals known to mankind - seafood soup and lobster (fresh fish there is heaven. Ironically, most of the locals opt for burgers and pizza most of the time. I guess if you lived around all that seafood, you'd want some cow from time to time, too.)

The next morning we set off. Now, Angus' favorite way to travel around countries is to take the smallest, windiest country roads imaginable. If they're inpaved it's a plus. If they have steep inclines or declines, it's even better. So much of the day was spent hurtling around various dirt roads trying to figure out where the fuck we were-armed with only a crappy Avis map and a guide book, half the time I had no clue what road we were on.


The navigator


He was itching to ignore a sign that said "Impassable", and drive down a bumpy mountain road that takes you over 4 glaciers and requires some river fording. I promised him that next time we could come back with a 4x4 and he could try it then. I didn't think the Yaris was up for it, and by then we'd been over such rough roads my uterus was nestled somewhere under my throat anyway.

Getting around was made harder by the roadsigns-although our Swedish came in handy time and time again, more often than not we simply hadn't a fucking clue what was going on in terms of translating the Icelandic.


Can you understand it?


(Click to embiggen and stare in awe at what may or may not be cat scratchings).

We stopped to get water - we'd run out and I suggested we buy more.

"Buy water in Iceland? Never!" cried Angus, and so we stopped at a waterfall that took the water straight off the melting ice cap.


Getting water


I have to admit, the water was ice cold and perfect. It was a wise choice.

We stopped at two waterfalls-Hraunfossar and Barnafoss Waterfalls (Barnafoss literally means Child Falls. I thought it was named that because it was a small waterfall, but the truth is it was named that as two children plunged to their deaths there. Nice and uplifting.)


Hraunfossar


We also stopped at the Deildartunguhver Hot Springs. I'd never been around a hot springs or a geyser in my life prior to this, and I can tell you one thing-they don't smell nice. At all. Geysers and hot springs have a very strong sulphuric smell, which is exactly what rotten boiled eggs smell like. Still, they were incredible-boiling hot water just pouring out of the ground and steam just escaping into the air, warming the area. Not something you see every day.


Deildartunguhver Hot Springs 2


After getting lost we got stuck on a mountain in the driving snow behind a stuck Big Truck who was getting pulled out by his buddy, Even Bigger Truck. So we did what any ordinary person would do in that kind of situation-we pulled a discreet distance away from the truck and had sex in the car. Then we ate potato chips while watching the two truck drivers bounce their way to freedom.

We finally made it to Reykjavik and checked in to our hotel. The hotel was fine, and one thing was clear-the shower was pumping in geyser water. Not only couldn't we get it to come out of the tap in any degree except "so hot it sloughs your skin off", but it smelled strongly of that boiled egg sulphuric smell.

The next day we meandered around Reykjavik in the morning and had lunch there. One thing that I should point out is that while we ate lunch in the sun, a row of baby carriages marked the sidewalk outside the restaurant. This is the norm for Scandinavia. I've seen it all over and actually with the exception of London, I've seen it here, too. When I first moved to Sweden I was shocked at the sleeping babies left outside the shops, pubs and homes in their strollers, snoozing away, their mothers popping out to check on them. But it happened time and time again-this is what people do. Some doctors even advocate letting the babies continue to snooze outside in their prams, provided they are appropriately dressed for the weather. It took a while for me to get used to it, but this is how things work around here. I know it seems very strange, especially if you're an American and have the same view I did, in which it's unheard of to leave your kid outside a shop. I'm not trying to sway your opinion here and I'm not looking for people to cry that it's child abuse, it simply is what it is - we all do things differently. I've yet to hear about an abduction in these countries from a snoozing infant outside a restaurant. So if you hop a plane to Reykjavik (or any multitude of places on this side of the pond), don't be shocked if you see the strollers outside.

What's interesting about Reykjavik is a lot of the homes are covered with corrugated tin, the kind of thing you'd see on the tops of garages or the sidings in shantytowns. But the truth is, most of them are well maintained, painted, and look amazing. I'd never seen houses covered with the stuff before, and it looked crisp and clean.

We strolled around the city some more, went back to the hotel for a bit of afternoon how's your father, and then got in the car. We left Reykjavik and drove to the farthest southwest tip of Iceland. We passed a geothermal plant where Angus was desperate to go inside and tour but the barricades were down. which I tried to impress upon him was the international sign for "Seriously, we don't want people in here." The impression did not take. He passed the first set as he was so eager to see the inside of a geothermal plant (with me wondering if I'd get to see what the inside of an Icelandic prison would look like), but the second set of barriers were definitely impassable, so we left. There we stopped at the hot springs at Krysuvik.


Hot springs at Krysuvik


Hot springs dude


Which again, didn't smell too good.

Then we drove to the furthest southwest point in the country and watched the wild surf.


Water at Reyjkanesta 2


We went to the point where you can stand on a bridge overlooking the gap between the tectonic plates of America and Europe.


The divide between the tectonic plates dividing American and Europe


And finally, we went to the place I'd been dying to go to.

We went to the Blue Lagoon.

This is, of course, not the place where Brooke Shields lost her virginity to Christopher Atkins.

Instead, it's where a massive amount of geothermal water is gathered into an unbelievably blue lagoon, where you swim around in water as warm as a comfortable bath and scoop some of the all-natural mud from cnetrally located buckets to scrub your face and arms. The mud, made of salt, lava rock and silica, really does make you feel like a million bucks. The entire lagoon is surrounded by a huge lava field, and you honestly feel like you are walking on the moon (hey, there's a song in that.) You swim around in your swimsuit in a massive lagoon with others dotted here and there in the lagoon, too. The air is freezing but the water is perfectly warm, and although the minerals are great for your skin it turns your hair into a true Brillo pad.

From time to time, you'd come across a little nook where a couple was getting amorous.

They weren't the only ones.

*Ahem.*

I think there's something in the water.

We didn't take any pictures inside the place because we didn't want to get our camera wet, but we took some of the unblievably blue water outside and the official website photo tab has more photos to show the place off.


Blue Lagoon 2


And then we went back to our hotel, ate a huge meal, slept like babies, and headed for the airport, where we flew back. We got to fly back on business class and use the business class lounge (courtesy of Angus' BA miles). They had a courtesy basket full of small Blue Lagoon spa hand lotion samples, which the Blue Lagoon sells for scary prices. Between Angus and myself, we took about 50 packets. This is what happens when you let riffraff like us in a business class lounge.

Iceland was amazing. I loved it. The people are very kind and remarkably trusting-not once did we have to give a credit card to hold a room or make a deposit. I think it's incredible and sweet and I hope they never get jaded there. Although we only saw a small part of the country, I'd love to go back and see more. Apparently all the geothermal plants open their doors to the public every year from June-August, which of course has registered high with the boy. I don't know if we'll be going back this year, but we'll definitely be going back.

-H.

Full set of photos here.

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May 15, 2007

Angus-isms

Angus often comes up with winners that make me wish I had a pen in my hand, so that I could scribble them down on the outside of my hand for future reference. Most of the time I think: Yup. I am so blogging that. Other times I think: Eh, they wouldn't believe me if I blogged it anyway. We run the gamut in what we talk about, but I usually know that whatever we discuss will have an angle to it that's 100% pure Angus involved. As a result, conversations in this household tends to be more interesting than conversations that I ever had with all of my exes combined.

Maybe that's what makes for a winning combination in the relationship department.

So here, I offer you the daily chitchat that occurs in my house.


***************************


The other night we were watching My Big Breasts and Me, partly because nothing else was on, and partly because I have some experience on the subject.

One tiny woman is attending a gym in hopes of reducing her rack. Her fitness trainer tells her that exercising, while getting you healthy and a good way of losing weight, cannot "spot check" where you want to hit, and that it may not work for her (I was told the same.) He takes her measurements.

"OK, so you're 60 kilos," he says slowly.

I sit up. "60 kilos? She's only 60 kilos-" that's about 132 pounds - "on that scale? That's impossible. She looks way heavier than me, and pre-pregnancy I was only nearly 68 kilos. She looks like she weighs more than I do, doesn't she? Doesn't she?" I ask Angus.

He looks at me, a deer caught in the headlights. A whimpering sound escapes him. He holds his head in his hands, nervous. "Ummm...what's the right answer here? How do I answer this? I dunno what I'm supposed to say. Heads, I lose, tails, I lose. What do I answer?"

And even though he answered wrong, his angst made me laugh, and he was forgiven.


***************************


We were laying in bed the other night, discussing the house chores that we'd completed that day (this is not what's known as foreplay in our home, in case you were wondering if we get off on Windex or anything like that.)

"I finally addressed the pile of clothes on the bed," I said mournfully. "That fucking Harry Potter didn't come take care of them for me."

"Who's Harry Potter? I thought we decided to not hire outside cleaning help."

I am exasperated. I know Angus hates sci-fi and fantasy, but this is a bit ridiculous. "Harry Potter? The teenage magician? Those books that I read?"

"Oh. Oh yes. Him. Such pointless material."

"And yet the books are one of the record-breaking book sales in history," I mutter.

"I tried to follow the story, but after all the white horses and and volcanoes, it did my head in. I watched one hour of the film and had to go do something else," he said.

"Honey, that's Tolkein you're thinking of," I say gently.

"Was he in the book too? Is that Dumbledick, or Tumblemore, or whatever his name is?"

GOD.

"Tolkein wrote The Lord of the Rings triology. You're getting them confused."

"Oh right." Then - "So he was in the book?"

I decide to take the path most travelled. "Yes, honey. Tolkein is in the Harry Potter books. He's the one with the wand."


***************************


Later, we were talking about a BBC programme we watched (seriously, we live life on the edge in our house.) The show was called Supergrass, and before you get your hopes up, it wasn't about the world's fastest growing turf, nor was it about the marijuana that you've been dreaming of all your life. The programme was about a series of police informants that the police force here in England used in the 70's and 80's.

"Supergrass is a stupid term for a snitch," I say out loud.

Angus laughs. "Why are you calling them snitches?" he asks.

I am confused. "Well, that's what they are. Snitches."

"Not over here, babe. A grass is someone that rats you out," he says.

"Yeah, I know. It's the same in the States, only I think it's a bit of an old-fashioned Mafia term."

"Yeah, well, a snitch means something else over here. 'Snitch' means a woman's body parts."

"The good parts or the naughty parts?"

"The naughty parts."

I think about this. "Seems weird then that an Englishwoman would write books in which her character is always chasing a Golden Snitch."

"Who does that?" comes the query.

"Harry Potter," I reply.

"Christ, not that guy again."


***************************


Sunday the rain came down in sheets of chilled horror. I spent the day catching up on Heroes and Lost, both of which were saved on the satelite hard drive.

"Babe?" comes the call from the study, where Angus has spent the day working on architecture designs, surfing the web for the new camcorder he wants (just in time for the twins), and dicking around on ebay.

"Yeah?" I reply, freezing the screen at the exact moment that Hiro is making a stupid facial expression, which happens more than one would think.

"How badly do you want a table saw?"

"I want a table saw more than I have ever wanted anything in my life, ever," I reply solemnly.

"Excellent. I just won one in ebay."

"Great, honey. What are you going to do with it?" I reply, grinning.

"That's not the important part. What's important is that we now have one."

Well good then. I can sleep well at night knowing that an ebay table saw is in our garage.


***************************


"What time is our flight on Wednesday?" I ask, popping a Ritz cracker into my mouth.

"7:30 am," replies Angus.

"Wow," I saw, just managing to avoid sending a stream of crumbs down my shirt. "We'll have to leave the house early then."

"Your powers of deduction are amazing," comes the reply.


***************************


We leave tomorrow morning at the crack of dawn (there's my deduction in action again) for four days in Iceland (and I'm a lucky enough girl that my boy used his miles to upgrade us to business class).

See you on Monday.

-H.


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May 14, 2007

White Cotton Hell - Not Just for Granny Panties Anymore

So on Friday I bunked off work early (I had actually earned this-I worked very long hours last week writing technical documents that made my eyes cross) in order to purchase clothing to accommodate the needs of my burgeoning waistline. When I was last in the States I bought a pair of jeans from Old Navy (complete with stretchy, revoltingly fluffy bunny fleece ice cream cone waistband), a pair of black work trousers, and a pair of shorts (foolish, foolish Helen. It's been raining and cold for the past 10 days straight here. What was I thinking?)

But the thing is, unless you're wearing your pajamas all the time (which, let's be honest, I am), then you get pretty sick of the ice cream cone jeans and the black trousers. Reaaaaaly sick of them. It was time to make some amends to the wardrobe.

The thing is, I've been able to wear most of my regular clothes anyway, because:

1) I suffer from low self-esteem (to which you're smacking your forehead and rolling your eyes, saying "Noooooo! Really?")
2) I like my clothes to be roomy and comfy so I buy clothes one size up from what I really wear - although I choose to wear a 14 here (U.S. size 10), I'm really a 12 (U.S. size . I just can't bear fitted clothes.
3) see # 1
4) Even though I'm four months pregnant, I've seen pictures of other four month pregnant women and I look way less pregnant than they do. And I'm carrying twins. I'm some kind of carnie freak. I worry this means I'll explode in a haze of purple stretch marks in a few months' time.

So yeah. The need hasn't been huge, but I can't go around with my zippers just unzipped anymore, the clothes, they do not fit.

So off to the shops then.

I went to a nearby Next shop. Now, I like Next. Next is ok. Next is the first shop I stopped at on my first visit to the UK, when I had under-planned a visit to the biting cold that is an English winter and desperately needed gloves and a scarf. I knew that Next had maternity gear, so I decided to see what they might have for someone that's pretty loathe to invest much money in preggo clothes.

I found a number of empire-style tops and such, but they had ridiculous patterns. It's like stepping back into the 80's, when women were expected to wear pinafores and little ribbons around their necks as they work the "Seriously, We Are the Antithesis of Sexy" look. Maternity clothes used to be (I think) a form of punishment, the scarlet letter A for those whose uteruses (uteri?) had removed the "For Let" signs. I know that for most pregnant isn't considered a time for women to be hot-Angus is not a fan of the pregnant look, he doesn't think women "glow" or are "femininely sexy", to him the pregnant woman is just that - pregnant. I must say I'm feeling pretty sexy lately (it must be the hormones), and I certainly don't want to strap myself into something that's the polyester equivalent of a chastity belt.

I picked up a few things to try on, as maybe I was just being ridiculous and slightly over-sensitive and what woman doesn't want to be swathed in fleecy ice cream cones? I grabbed the UK size 12 (one size smaller than I used to wear) since I felt I needed to get a grip on this self-esteem issue (which is always a bold move when you're up 7 kg on the scale. Nothing says "love thyself" than seeing your body creep up 15 pounds.) I tried on the froopy, cutesy empire shirts and they worked well-the only area that's growing on me is my waist, my arms and shoulders are the same size, so the clothes fit well.

As I was leaving, I asked the attendant if that was all the maternity clothing they had.

"Oh that's not maternity," the size-00 attendant replied. "Those are for our larger women. This store doesn't stock maternity clothes." She adjusted her sparkly superfluous belt around her malnourished hips and went about her business.

What? They don't have maternity clothes? These ridiculous patterns are what the shop felt was best intended for plus-size women? Moreover, the cut and pattern of the clothes is perfectly aligned for the pregnant folk (and in fact, I was one of three knocked up chicks perusing the section), yet they expect non-pregnant women to wear these cutesy cuts? NO ONE but a pregnant person looks ok in these cuts, mostly because all the shape of the clothing does is reaffirm to people that there is a bun in the oven, but also because people expect pregnant women to radiate "I've already done that sex bit, so move along". Are plus-sized women horrified at this kind of selection? What, do shops think that because women are a few sizes more they need to be interpreted as someone with an active uterus?

And moreover, when did a size 12 get labelled as a plus-size? I'm not the tiniest of chicks, but if a size 4 is the norm then hand me the nachos please, because I want off the island.

Anyway, I selected a soft dress that has absolutely no waistline and room to grow that I can wear for work. I chose one of the least cutesy tops I could find, which is a top in a dark purple color. And I picked up a casual summer dress that's also empire waisted, so that I can wear it around the house and shops. It's shockingly short, but I figured-Fuckit. My legs look fine. I may not be the hottest chick in town, but I feel pretty sexy, and just because I'm a constipated incubator, it doesn't mean I can't try to feel good about how I look.

As I was perusing the stock one more time, I saw a soft, airy white cotton dress. It was so lovely. I looked at it and immediately though of E.M. Forster's Room With a View - I could wear it and spank the Edwardian ass. I saw myself in it, serving up gin and tonics in our sun-filled garden (though not drinking one, of course), with a wide-brimmed straw hat and daintily polished toes as I tiptoed through the gentle grass and laughed in a delicate and tinkly laugh at my guests' witticisms.

(I might have been channeling a bit of Gone With the Wind there, I could be wrong.)

I had to try it on. They only had it in a size 10, but as the waist was also quite high, I figured me and my Lemonheads could fit in it. I would look like the perfect English-American-pregnant-with-twins-but-not-suffering-swollen-ankles hostess. I would flit, I would float, I would fleetly flee I'd fly.

I headed back to the dressing room, holding the white cotton dress seperate from the other maternity-like clothes, whose very presence could besmirch the purity that was my perfect summer outfit. I got into a dressing room, pulled the curtain (Yeah, um, seriously, Next - consider real doors. It won't kill you.) and took off my clothes, leaving on only my bra, knickers, and Family Guy socks (thanks, Teresa!). I smiled at my curvy stomach with Helena Bonham Carter kindness. I unzipped the side of the dress, lifted up the layers of white dress and started to slide it over my head. I was Emma Thompson. I was grace. I was in perfect harmony with my inner woman.

I was also clearly pretty hormonal, because once I got it on I looked like I had seized a sheet off the bed and decided to work it, a la toga style. The dress made my waist look wider than the state of Montana. My breasts were held up in the empire-waist style, but they also looked like you should put a quarter between them and then pull my arm and see if you could hit the jackpot. I have seldom looked worse in a dress than that one. If flour sacks become the rage, I'm going back for that dress, because it worked the baking angle in every way, shape, and form.

My Forster dreams collapsed, I frowned and immediately started to pull it off my head. I was angry. I had to be cleared of this white hot molten cotton mess as fast as possible. In these situations, I typically don't think I just react, and my reaction was to angrily remove the dress by seizing the bottom and heaving it upwards. This meant the dress turned inside out as it was coming up. This was, clearly, a mistake.

Because I'd forgotten to unzip the side before I started taking it off.

I was stuck.

I couldn't get my arms back down as my shoulder conveniently decided to lock. I couldn't get the dress back down because I was swathed in those previously cute looking layers of white cotton. I could see myself through the mirror, and there I was-my stomach riding high over the tops over my underwear and, in this position with my arms raised, I didn't look pregnant, I just looked like the Dorito eating champion of the world. And I noticed with a start that there was a hole in the front of my black lace knickers.

I struggled some more. I couldn't move. I was stuck in a white cotton straightjacket. I started swearing.

"Are you ok in there?" came a voice from the other side of the divider.

"Er...yes. Just a problem with a dress," I replied. I was getting hot battling my nemesis white dress. My face felt like it was on fire.

Suddenly, my curtain parted. I froze like a deer in the headlights. I couldn't even cover my bits as my arms were stuck above my head.

"Oh you poor dear," said a voice.

Oh. My. God.

There's a woman standing there witnessing my retail horror. And I was not invisible, she could see me. And she could see my pants. And they have a hole in them. And my bra doesn't match. And my baby paunch was hanging perversely over the top of my pants, like I was Roseanne Barr or something.

But hey-at least she was wearing one of the cutesy empire waist shirts, so there was some karma.

"Is everything ok over here?" came the voice of the attendent with the praying mantis body.

OH GOD, NOT HER. If anyone is to witness my downfall, let it be Angus, let it be Oprah, let it be Hootie and the Blowfish, just don't let it be the super skinny chick.

But of course she saw.

I'm fairly certain I heard the Lemonheads sniggering at that point.

"You're stuck," she said flatly.

Ten out of ten for the fucking obvious, babe.

"I think that's not your size," she says, observing me and taking in the unmistakable curve of a stomach that hasn't seen situps in over 4 months. I saw her lip curl. I saw her twitch, like the only way she was going to get out of the situation ok was if she dropped and gave us 20.

"Actually, it fit ok, I just forgot to unzip it," I say desperately. Why are we talking when they can see my Family Guy socks?

The two women reach over and help me get the dress off, at which point I lose an ear, the skin off my left shoulder, and any shred of dignity I had left.

The attendant hands me the now crumpled dress. "Shall I get you another size?" she asks archly.

"No," I reply firmly. "No, that dress and I are done now." I shake my hair out of my eyes and see myself in the mirror-my face is the color of an angry sunburn and I have static electricity giving my hair that absent minded professor look.

I get dressed with whatever confidence I have left, pay for my other two dresses and shirt, and leave. That feeling sexy bit that I referred to earlier? Yeah. DUST IN THE WIND.

White cotton is clearly something made by the devil.

-H.

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May 11, 2007

Running Interference

So, I was warned by others that if/when I ever got knocked up, that basketball known as my uterus would become public property. Ripe for the opinions, advice (well-intentioned or otherwise), and for people touching me (no one's tried that yet. I will personally bitch slap the first person who does*. I am not a Care Bear, do not touch the stomach.)

So far, I haven't been disappointed (except the stomach rubbing part. Luckily, I'm safe from that. I think I generally give off the "I am not a smurf, don't pat me" air.) I get a lot of advice (generally well-intentioned, and of that advice, it's very welcome. Hints are good. I like hints.)

What I haven't had is a lot of real-life gasping horror at how we're planning things-I've had emails and comments, but no one has said anything to my face. Maybe I don't get that as my colleagues here don't really flap one way or another - we're a close bunch, but as long as our project plans get done, then hey-paint your face purple and run a parade float, who gives a shit? My family has turned out to be surprisingly hands-off-I thought my dad would be running interference, but his line has staunchly been "whatever you want to do, I support you". Props to my dad, then. He does sternly admonish that although I'm a vegetarian, our children should be meat-eaters, and actually I agree. I think being a vegetarian is a choice up to the individual, so if the kids decide to not eat meat then cool-that's their call.

My father has had one issue with me, though.

He wants us to get married before the babies are born.

My short answer to him was: No.

My long answer to him was: No.

I know it seems like we're going about things the wrong way, but Angus and I have both been married before. To us, we maybe see things a bit more...cynically. We're jaded. Don't get me wrong, we're engaged and we will get married, but neither of us personally see being hitched as a major showstopper in producing babies. They are coming out of the chute regardless of whether or not there's a marriage certificate to burst through like a scene from Chariots of Fire.

Unmarried families seem to be the norm in Sweden (I could count on one hand the number of married couples I knew there.) Likewise, although married families are more common that unmarried ones in England, we do also know a number of couples that aren't married but raising children together. In the U.S., the incidence of unmarried families is rising as well and is currently at an all-time high-30% of all parents are unmarried, and a study showed that unmarried couples with children tended to be the most stable relationship. This is exactly what we want-stability. I have a severely unstable background, I won't have that for my kids.

In some areas I'm a seriously stubborn chick. I won't marry for a visa - I have a work visa, thanks, and I prefer to be here on my own two feet (insert strains of I am Woman Hear Me Roar here.) I won't marry because I'm pregnant (insert strains of Deliverance here.) I won't get married for any reason other than I love the man and I want to spend the rest of my life with him. And I do love my man and want to spend the rest of my life with him, it's the details that need working out. Angus wants a big wedding with all his friends and family so cool, we can do that (personally, I'd prefer a beach deal with just the two of us, but I know he's a bit of a traditionalist, and that's fine). But it'll be a lot of stress to arrange, plan, and hold a wedding between now and October, and I'd really rather not do it while desperately searching for empire waisted dresses to accommodate a growing bump and hoping to God I'll poop sometime in the near future, although ideally not moments before that "walking down the aisle" part. I want a proper honeymoon, with alcohol and sun and scuba diving, none of which are ok now. And as I keep growing, I'll be on a travel ban soon enough, we feel there simply isn't time enough to plan these things.

He and I are resolute-we will get married.

Just not this year.

Angus' family, whom we met at his mother's home in East Sussex last weekend, asked us similar questions. It turned out to be quite a nice visit, although the middle of it was pockmarked by my contentious views. I swear I never mean to cause waves with them, but this time it was rather unavoidable. Over the dessert course his family asked us when we'd be getting married this year and asked if they should buy tickets (for some reason they have it in their heads that we're all flying off to Hawaii together and Angus and I are going to united in matrimony there. Neither Angus nor I have the faintest idea where they got this idea from, it hadn't occurred to us and the idea didn't originate from us. It does, however, seem to the plan that everyone wants and expects.) We explained to them that we wouldn't be getting married this year.

Insert gasps of horror from his family.

"So...your kids will be..." chokes his sister-in-law Terry.

"Little bastards, yeah," I grin, finishing her sentence for her.

"But they will be missing out on their rights!" she exclaims.

"Really? What rights will our children lack?" I ask.

She was unable to answer.

I thought so.

If we thought that was bad, our next announcement was like dropping a bomb on the quiet English countryside.

"And we're not going to have a Christening, either," Angus announces.

We're not. Neither of us are remotely religious-Angus could loosely be described as a Christian, as for myself I pretty much walk the agnostic line and have done for some time. We both feel that religion is like being a vegetarian-it's a choice. If our kids decide to be baptised someday, if they decide to be churchgoing, then we will support them in their decision. But Angus and I come from different backgrounds-I was raised Catholic, he was raised Church of England. Who are we to say that one religion should trump the other?

That didn't sit at all well with the family. Angus' Mum and Stepfather attend church occasionally. His Fillipina sister-in-law Jane is a practicing Catholic (apart from that whole shotgun wedding thing.) And his conservative brother Adam is a bell-ringer for the local church. Church is the done thing in his book, which is titled "I'm a Traditional Man in Absolutely Every Way, Shape, and Form."

Adam looked horrified.

"If your babies die, they'll go to hell!" he preached.

My first thought was: Fuck you.
My second thought was: Fuck you.
My third thought was: I may have gained 6 kilos already, but I can outrun you and kick your skinny ass, white boy, which I'm going to do right now.
My fourth thought was: Fuck you.

There are a lot of things I struggled with about Catholicism. Birth control being a big (and rather fundamental) one, but another one was the ridiculous notion of limbo, a concept that I personally felt was a weak, pathetic, horrific attempt by the church to scare mothers into shuttling their kids off to the Catholic church. Based on the idea that a newborn needed to "wash away the original sin" of sex between the parents, a baptism was the only way that the sin could be removed and the child could go to heaven. No baptism, no golden ticket to the pearly gates. That's the church's view. This view is unforgivable to me, the idea that an innocent child is born guilty and going to hell just because of the actions of the parents. The new pope actually stated recently that there are ideas about changing the idea of limbo, in a suspiciously wimpy there are "grounds to hope that children who die without being baptized can go to heaven", although he has also said "Baptism does not exist to wipe away the "stain" of original sin, but to initiate one into the Church". So really, no true progress there.

My response to the Pope's recent discussion on limbo, which made me wildly angry, is along the lines of "Bite me", which goes partway to explaining why I'm a lapsed Catholic. Also, it's why I'm probably going to hell myself, but as I've said before I'll be manning the margarita machine down there, so stop on by for a free cold frosty one.

My response to Adam was somewhat more measured. "Our chlidren are not going to die, nor are they going to hell," I said calmly.

And I actually felt calm, too. Despite the flashed-up feeling I had about being told my kids may go to the fiery hot spot in the south, I felt calm and resolute. His reaction only served to reinforce my stance. I may have been through therapy to stop seeing my life so black and white, but it didn't mean grey applies to my kids yet.

"And the kids are going to be British citizens?" Adam fires off.

"Yes, of course," I reply. "They're going to be both American and British." This is also non-negotiable for us. The children will have the citizenship of both parents. Melissa and Jeff are both English and Swedish citizens and our two kids will be American and English. Angus and I have already discussed this and we feel it's very important.

"So are you going to move with them to America?" Adam asks.

I had prepared myself for that one.

"No, we don't see moving back to America at any point in the future," I reply.

He nods, still assessing me. I know I'm under scrutiny as he's sure that his Jane - who is about the nicest, gentlest person I know - is scheming to move back with their two kids to the Phillipines. I think it's more likely she gets her ass engraved with the words "I like big butts" than witness her moving back to the Phillipines, but hey - it's his suspicion. I am not happy with the idea that someone might view me as a walking Sperm Donor Detector - I am not with Angus purely for his semen morphology which, while impressive, is not what drew me to him. Angus has not outlived his "usefulness". Yes, we may be knocked up, but I'm with him for the very long haul, a family is just another step in this.

I'm a bit angry with Adam, but this is just the way he is. I actually really like him most of the time, he's good company and (usually) a very nice chap. He's just very black and white about issues in life. Traditional triumphs over modern every time. He makes outrageous comments he later has to back down over, and we've seen him have to do it time and time again. I know he doesn't dislike me, but as a divorcee younger foreign woman who has successfully "seduced" his older brother, I suppose I am held with some element of conscious study. Is she ok, or any minute now will her Black Widow tendancies come out?

"We're not planning on moving to America," I reiterate. "But we'd love to move to Australia or New Zealand someday, so that's always a possibility!" It's true, we would very much like to move there, only we have decided we shouldn't while Angus' two kids are still in school and can fly to see him monthly.

This was also not very popular.

Sister-in-law Jane looked relieved I'd taken the heat off. She'd confessed to me under a vow of secrecy that she and her husband (Angus' youngest brother) are thinking of moving their family to Malaysia or Singapore in the near future. I was glad to be of assistance.

It didn't really upset me too much. I'd been sinking my battleships all day anyway.


-H.


*Teresa and Ms. Pants excepted, of course.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 07:24 AM | Comments (30) | Add Comment
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